


I Love You (From My Head To-ma-toes)

by yousopuglywrites



Category: Best Song Ever - One Direction (Music Video), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Dry Humping, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Halloween Costumes, I've forgotten how to tag these things, M/M, Tomato Puns, Vegetables, all that fun stuff, apple picking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 11:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21035234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yousopuglywrites/pseuds/yousopuglywrites
Summary: When Louis is dared to ask out the attractive Man in the Sweater Vest at the pub, he certainly doesn't expect their relationship to bloom the way it does. Featuring a dare that isn't really a dare, too many vegetable references, and two silly boys falling in love.





	I Love You (From My Head To-ma-toes)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom and it's definitely been a labour of love (who thought signing up for a fic exchange while moving country was a good idea?). Hope you love Marcel and his vegetable obsession as much as I do. 
> 
> A massive thank you goes to hi-larrie-ous who created the amazing artwork to go with the fic - couldn't have asked for a better artist to be paired up with! 
> 
> Also big thanks to harry-hadalittlelamb who agreed to beta this despite the short notice and being sick - you're a star!

The problem with being stood up for a date is that it means the hours spent memorising fascinating tomato facts goes to waste. And then you’re forced to tell them to your desk buddy at work because the facts are just too interesting not to share, but for some reason that only serves to make said co-worker dislike you more than they already do. And _then_ you have to tell your sister about the whole ordeal. 

“You see, tomatoes don’t grow particularly well in that environment and she got all huffy with me, but I was _right_ – if you want to grow squashes, that’s a different matter, but tomatoes, you have to have firmer soil, especially if you want the type of tomatoes that go well with – what?”

Marcel’s dramatic retelling of his struggle to enlighten the world with tomato tips is rudely interrupted as his sister shoots him a look, taking a long sip of her sauvignon blanc.

“What?” Marcel repeats, a blush belying his self-consciousness. They’re at their weekly Friday night get together at the Rose and Dagger, the only pub that is located near their workplaces and satisfies both of their criteria (not too rowdy for Marcel, and a bit of atmosphere and good wine for Gemma).

“You know I love you, Marce, but you’re never going to find a boyfriend if you keep going on about vegetables.”

Five minutes into their get together and she’s already circled the conversation back around to her favourite subject. Marcel is pretty sure it’s a new record. “Vegetables are yummy and also fun to grow.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t think Katie or any potential husband wants to hear a ten minute soliloquy about it.”

Marcel sniffs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “People who don’t appreciate a good vegetable aren’t good husband material anyway.”

“I don’t think that’s the hill you want to die on, to be honest.”

“Does it matter what hill I die on if I’m going to die on it alone anyway?” It’s obviously a joke, but Gemma’s smirk fades somewhat. She pushes her wine glass to the side of the table.

“How’s it going with that new Greg guy from work? You said he was really lovely, right?”

“He is – and I’m sure his girlfriend would agree.”

“What about that speed dating evening I told you about?”

Marcel groans and throws up his hands in exasperation, almost sending his drink flying. He knows she means well, but he also knows she’s been put up to this interrogation by their mother. The idea of a twenty-four-year-old man having their mother manage their love life seems more than a little absurd.

Besides, just because he doesn’t have a boyfriend doesn’t mean he’s unhappy, thank you very much. He has a great job, he’s financially stable, and the small flat he shares with Esmerelda the cat is perfectly adequate. There’s no need to keep hounding him about contrived dating events designed to make his already above average anxiety levels rise to unbearable proportions. After a particularly dreadful string of blind dates while he was at university, some set up by his sister, others by his only friend on campus, Liam, he banned his family from getting involved in his admittedly non-existent love life (literally non-existent since he did just get stood up for the second time this year).

Which is why he ignored the flyer Gemma emailed him about the speeding dating event yesterday, a fact she is well aware of.

“You know I didn’t go to that.” Marcel smudges the ring of condensation left by his empty glass of ginger beer, watching the table top stain darker.

“Why not? It looked fun. You’re never going to find anyone if you don’t put yourself out there and get out of your comfort zone a bit. For god’s sake, the height of your social calendar is going to the pub with your sister on a Friday night. Mum’s worried about you.”

It hits a little too close to home to be honest. He’s made his peace with being a little off beat, a little too anxious and awkward to fit in with his peers, but that doesn’t mean he likes having it pointed out by others, especially when he’s also reminded that it causes his mother a fair amount of emotional distress.

He shrugs and decides to go for another ginger beer just so he doesn’t have to answer her. And if he doesn’t offer to get her one, well, at least she knows she crossed the line. Take that, Gemma. No ginger beer for you.

He knows he’s pouting as he wanders up to the bar, he’s always struggled to not let every single emotion he feels cross his face, but he makes sure to smile at the bartender in the hopes of being served quicker.

It doesn’t work. Being a Friday night, the place is packed with people having post-work or pre-clubbing drinks and Marcel finds himself being shoved out of the way by various elbows and handbags, too polite to do the same back. Someone wearing Doc Martens stamps on his toes and it _hurts_, but he doesn’t want to go back to their table empty-handed. He could do without looking any more pathetic in front of his sister for one evening, especially when she’s going to report back to their mum.

He finally gets his hands on the bar and pulls himself against it only for some rude man to shove him sideways and steal his position. Apologising to the random person he bumped into as a result, Marcel turns back to glare at the perpetrator only for them to be yanked backwards as someone grabs onto their grey hoodie.

“Calvin, for fuck’s sake, can you control your limbs?” Marcel’s head turns at the sound of the voice next to him, watching as its owner shoves the rude man – Calvin – further back into the mass of bodies. “Sorry about him, mate. He’s already a bit pissed so he’s lost all spatial awareness.”

“No, no, that’s quite alright. I mean, obviously it isn’t, but I understand that when someone is intoxicated they can’t always control their bodies very well. I know someone who can’t drink alcohol without getting into fistfights; he’s not very pleasant to be around.”

Marcel can feel heat rising to his cheeks as the man stares at him. He knows he’s rambling and talking too fast like his sister always tells him not to, but this man is properly attractive, all artfully dishevelled hair and beautiful blue eyes, and Marcel doesn’t have a good track record with attractive men. In fact, despite his above average IQ, they seem to make his brain turn to mush.

Before he can bore the man any further, a bar tender is snapping his fingers and – somewhat rudely – asking Marcel to order or get out the way. By the time he’s clutching his ginger beer, the beautiful man and his drunk friend are both gone, presumably with more alcoholic beverages.

Sighing, Marcel makes his way back to the table, making sure his drink is securely placed on the little beer mat this time before sitting down again.

He pushes his glasses up while he thinks of a safe conversation topic for his sister. There are so many topics, such as growing vegetables, that she doesn’t seem to enjoy which makes it rather difficult at times. He’s just about to ask her about her overweight cat’s new feeding regime when she grabs his arm, making a weird noise in the back of her throat.

“Don’t look now, but that fit bloke from the bar is staring at you.”

Naturally, Marcel looks. He tries to make it as subtle as possible, pretending to glance at the grotty artwork adorning the walls, but he’s pretty sure his audible gasp is a bit of a give away when his eyes meet the blue eyes of the attractive man from before.

The gasp gets caught in his throat and he chokes slightly, coughing while Gemma makes an aborted move to grab his inhaler. He gets himself under control again, resolutely staring at the table.

“He’s clearly checking you out.”

Apparently, his sister has no concern for his physical wellbeing, coming out with lies like that as he’s recovering from a choking fit.

“No, he just recognised me from earlier, that’s all.”

Marcel pushes his glasses up his nose while Gemma takes another sip of wine.

“He’s still staring…”

“Because I just coughed up a lung.”

“You should go and ask him out.”

Marcel snorts which makes his glasses slide back down his nose. “That’s ridiculous. He’s probably not even gay.”

“Of course he’s gay, he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you –”

“Well, I think I’d rather not have a cannibal as a partner.” Marcel cuts her off before she can get too vulgar. She has a dreadful habit of that.

Gemma rolls her eyes, leaning forwards in her chair to push Marcel’s glasses back up. “Go and ask him out. I’m not letting my baby brother become a hermit at twenty-four.”

“No. Drop it or I’ll tell mum that you’re moving in with Michael.”

He watches Gemma’s next retort die in her mouth. Hah. Marcel might not be much of a people person, but at least he knows his sister.

“You fight dirty, little brother.”

“Yes, well, I ought to be going now anyway. Esmerelda will be expecting her dinner.”

“Fine, fine. Go back to your hermit cave with your hermit cat and watch the Discovery Channel, see if I care.”

Marcel rolls his eyes as he gets up and puts his coat on. He doesn’t only watch the Discovery Channel, thank you very much. “Bye, Gemma. Enjoy your dinner date tomorrow evening.”

“Thanks. See you next week. Same time, same place, and don’t bother with the excuses – I know you don’t make plans on Friday nights.”

She’s not wrong. The only activity on his social calendar is Friday evening drinks with his sister, and that’s only because she insists. He just nods as he weaves his way out of the pub, already tugging his coat closed against the cold evening air and pretending he can’t feel more than one pair of eyes on his back.

*

Marcel gets the bus back to his flat and luckily it seems the after-work rush hour has ended because he’s able to have a pair of seats to himself. It’s not like he won’t let people sit by him – he’s always careful not to put his satchel on the neighbouring seat or ‘manspread’ too much as Gemma calls it – but he much prefers not having to squish himself against the window in order to avoid accidentally touching the person next to him. Honestly, Marcel would rather stand up for the twenty-minute journey. His mother might have raised a gentleman, but he’s a gentleman who enjoys personal space and not sharing body heat with strangers.

He lets himself into his flat, having to shove rather hard because of the way the door sticks. He has mentioned it to his landlord, but unsurprisingly nothing has ever been done about it. Besides, he likes his flat too much to kick up a huge fuss and be forced to move.

Once inside, he carefully removes his work shoes and places them on the shoe rack by the door, making a mental note to polish them later, and switches on the nearby lamp just in time to see a black and white blur skid towards him.

“Hello, Merie,” He coos, immediately discarding his satchel and kneeling down to stroke his cat. “How’s my little lovebug? How’s my little Ellie Merie? Did you have a good day?”

Esmerelda accepts his fussing in her usual resigned manner, probably wondering why Marcel is butchering her name with increasingly more ridiculous baby names. It’s a favourite pastime of his, thinking of new ways to rearrange the syllables to achieve maximum cuteness. Perhaps Gemma had a point that he was weirdly reliant on his cat for affection.

When Esme stalks pointedly into the kitchen, Marcel follows and fills her bowl with half a sachet of cat food and a sprinkling of munchies on top. She daintily tucks in while Marcel starts collecting the ingredients for a stir fry.

He likes cooking and always prefers to prepare fresh meals rather than relying on those disgusting microwaveable concoctions, but he’s also prone to kitchen disasters. No matter how careful he is, things have a habit of exploding on him, leaving messy residue on his appliances. He’s long since accepted that he’s a bit of a disaster magnet and now relies on a rotation of safe staple dishes, including his beloved vegetable stir-fries. He’s not a vegetarian, but he does try to have a few meat-free meals a week. After all, disregarding the environment can’t be good for vegetable growing conditions. 

“You care about tomato growing, don’t you, Esme?”

Esmerelda licks her lips pointedly and returns to her food.

Marcel makes sure the vegetables are cooking on a low heat before heading into his tiny back garden to check on his plants. He waters and repositions them as necessary, making sure each plant is getting enough sunlight, especially his prised tomatoes. Predictably, he gets distracted when he notices a couple of ladybirds crawling around the stones and wonders whether they will do any harm to his plants.

“Oh goodness, the stir fry!” He hurries back into the kitchen and turns the stove down under the judgemental gaze of his cat, wincing as the back-door slams behind him.

“Hush, it’s not like you’re a vegetable stir fry connoisseur.” He admonishes and she saunters off to the bedroom, offended.

Double checking nothing is in imminent danger of bursting into flames (it wouldn’t be the first time the fire brigade has been called to his flat and they’re not as friendly or attractive as Hollywood suggests), he goes into the living room which also houses his two seater dining table. The room is as neat and tidy as he left it, aside from the half-finished origami spread out across the coffee table. His mother bought him a set as a Christmas gift and he’s been a little obsessed since he tried it out a fortnight ago. He’d started off with the beginner models, butterflies and boats, but he’d quickly had to buy some more coloured paper and now he’s moved onto the trickier ones. He generally finds keeping his hands occupied helps switch his mind off in the evening (not distract from the lonely quiet of his flat, thank you, Gemma) and making a rainbow out of different origami animals does the trick.

He picks up the two swans he made yesterday, a green and a blue one, and thinks about the news article he read about gay swans. He should tell Gemma about that the next time he sees her, although she’ll probably find something wrong with that conversation topic too. Sighing, he places the paper swans on the windowsill and goes to check on his dinner.

*

When Marcel enters the Rose and Dagger pub the following Friday, it’s with a spring in his step. His tomato plants have finally produced a good crop and when he took Esmerelda in for her yearly check-up yesterday, the veterinary assistant gave Marcel his number. Granted, it was just for emergencies because Esmerelda’s heartrate had been slightly irregular, but Gemma doesn’t need to know that. He’s rather hoping he can use it as a juicy titbit to stop the prying questions. She can exaggerate a little so that his mum thinks he’s dating a vet for a couple of weeks.

He’s early so he can buy their first round of drinks and secure a table before the evening rush begins. He’s just sat down after managing to only spill a tiny bit of his ginger beer when he spots the beautiful man from the previous week across the room. Thank goodness he already put the drinks down because the man is already staring back at him and that’s just a recipe for disaster. As it is, Marcel blushes and breaks their eye contact before busying himself with pretending to reply to non-existent text messages. He’s always been a bit of a wallflower and as a result has mastered the art of fiddling with his phone in order to be overlooked in crowds.

“You’re being watched.”

Marcel jumps at the sound of his sister’s voice, hastily locking his phone and glancing up at her. She’s not so subtly looking in the direction of the man with the blue eyes.

“Stop staring.” He hisses, mortified, fighting the urge to unlock his phone again just so that the man doesn’t think he’s involved in his sister’s gawking. She sits down, but keeps turning her head to smirk between Marcel and the man across the room.

Marcel tugs his sweater vest down and clears his throat.

“You didn’t need to buy a drink.” Gemma says.

“Um. Yes, I know.” He has to focus to respond to her, his mind uncharacteristically mushy. “But you bought the first round last time.”

“No – I mean you didn’t need to buy a drink because I guarantee if you’d gone up to the bar and just stood prettily for a bit, Mr Googly Eyes would’ve bought you one.”

“Shhh!” He contemplates covering her mouth to get her to stop talking in such a loud voice. If she’s not careful, the beautiful man will hear her and that would be beyond disastrous. Marcel pulls at his too tight collar just thinking about it.

“Ooh, his mates have turned up now,” Gemma continues gleefully. “They’re all looking at you. Looks like they’re teasing him about his googly eyes.”

If there’s one thing that never fails to make Marcel’s blood turn cold it’s the phrase _they’re all looking at you._ Having survived school, university and being the new graduate trainee at his job, he knows nothing good comes from people staring at him. It never fails to make him even more clumsy and awkward than usual.

“No, no, no, Gemma, stop, for heaven’s sake.” He’s pretty sure he’s ducking slightly which is ridiculous because it’s not like he can hide himself from view in this position, but he can’t seem to stop his shoulders hunching up, nor the blood rushing to his face.

Gemma seems to take pity on him, returning her focus back to their table and holding her hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, chill. You’re the colour of a bloody tomato.”

Marcel adjusts his tie and takes a calming breath. “Tomatoes actually come in many different colours, Gemma, and each variety has a slightly different flavour.”

If he had faster reflexes, he would dodge Gemma’s shove to his arm, but as it is, she hits her mark and he proceeds to spill a full ginger beer down the front of his sweater vest.

*

Louis and his friends have been coming to the Rose and Dagger for years, and Louis has certainly met his fair share of hook-ups and flings here, but he’s never seen anyone quite like the man in the sweater vest. The pub is certainly not the grottiest in Manchester – or even on this street – but it definitely isn’t the kind of place that attracts clientele like this man.

He appeared one Friday evening about a month ago, his pristine sweater vest and slicked back hair a contrast to the other beer-clutching men in the room. The wide frames of his glasses take up half his face and his facial expressions are a little exaggerated, like he’s perpetually acting in a silent film. Naturally, Louis is intrigued.

The man is always with the same female companion (a girlfriend? A friend? Perhaps a cousin? They do look a bit similar facially, but they wouldn’t be the first straight couple that Louis has mistaken for siblings) and the two of them always seem to have a drink before the man inevitably leaves first.

Louis had spoken to the man last Friday, but he’d seemed more than a little stressed so Louis had backed off and let him order his drinks in piece. The way he’d blushed had been adorable, though.

“Still obsessed with those two, then?” Oli asks from where he’s slid onto the padded leather seat next to him.

“I’m not obsessed – just think they’re interesting.” Louis defends himself, glancing away only for his eyes to be drawn back when the man in the sweater vest makes a loud squeaking sound, apparently agitated with his companion. “He’s always dressed like that. ‘S weird.”

“For fuck’s sake, go and talk to him if you’re that obsessed.”

“He’s not my type.” Louis says immediately because it’s true and also detracts from the fact that he would in fact quite like to go and talk to him. The man might be quirky, but he’s still good looking in a nerdy way. Not that he’s going to let Oli know that. “It’s just strange. I’ve never seen anyone in real life wear a sweater vest before.”

“My grandad does.” Calvin helpfully adds, earning a round of laughter.

Matt cranes his neck to get a better look. “What the hell is going on with his hair anyway? Is it meant to be like that or is it just really greasy?”

“Maybe he’s performing in a play or something.”

“What, ‘geeks the musical’?”

“The forty-year-old virgin more like.”

Their table erupts into yet more laughter, beer shooting out of Calvin’s nose. Louis half-heartedly chuckles and tries to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach because he’s somehow started this round of mocking at a stranger’s expense.

“They’re looking at you, Louis.”

Louis glances over when Calvin nudges him. He watches as the woman says something that makes the man with the sweater vest cringe. There’s a bit more back and forth and then the woman reaches out to swat at the man in the sweater vest’s arm and Louis watches in part-amusement, part-mortification as ginger beer spills all over said sweater vest.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long whether his mates have also witnessed the calamity because right on cue there’s another round of laughter.

“Enjoying the show, Lou?” Calvin asks in an obnoxiously loud voice. “Got a sweater vest fetish? Like the way it’s getting all wet?”

Louis rolls his eyes. His friends might be alright with him being gay, but they’re still proper dickheads. “No, shut up –”

“Dare you to ask him out.”

“No, I’m not fucking – ”

“Oh my god, do it. Go and tell him you have a thing for men in sweater vests.”

“No!”

“It’ll be fucking hilarious, Lou. Go on. I’ll buy you a ticket to the Man U game if he says yes.”

“I’m not…” He trails off as what Calvin said registers. There are very few things Louis wouldn’t do to get free tickets to a footie match. He wouldn’t, like, hurt his sisters or anything that drastic, but minorly humiliating himself definitely falls into the would-consider-for-the-greater-good-aka-footie category. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’s not exactly rolling in money at the moment which isn’t very compatible with going to expensive football matches.

And then there’s the minor fact that he kind of would very much like to go out with this man. If he’s being honest, which he definitely isn’t right now, the more he watches the man, the more entranced he becomes. If he thought they’d actually have anything in common he might have given it a shot by now, but it doesn’t take a genius to see they definitely belong to different worlds. Louis reckons any date they went on would be disastrous; he can’t see this man being interested in anything he has to say. He’d definitely rather avoid any embarrassment, but at least if he went over under the guise of a light-hearted dare from his mates, he would still technically have the upper hand even if he was rejected.

“He’s considering it.” Matt points out helpfully. Louis is in fact considering it even if it’s the kind of thing his mum always called idiot behaviour.

“Go on. If he says yes, I’ll make sure the seat’s got a sick view.”

Louis narrows his eyes at Calvin. There’s no harm in chatting the lad up, right? He really wants those tickets (and the man across the room) and it can’t be that hard to charm him a little, compliment his sweater vest. If nothing else, he can get a closer view at the man’s face, work out what it is about him that has Louis staring like a creep, his insides all squirmy. 

“Alright, you’re on.”

His friends cheer and clap him on the back, laughing yet again as he gets up from his seat and heads towards the toilets where the man with the sweater vest went after the whole drink spilling incident.

“He’s got to say yes, Tommo!” Calvin shouts after him and Louis flips him off before pushing through the door to the gents.

He walks in just as the man in the sweater vest comes out of the only stall in the room. The man jumps and dramatically presses a hand to his chest.

“Oh dear!” The man says, then promptly blushes when he sees who the intruder is.

“Sorry mate, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no. It’s quite alright. You just caught me by surprise.”

“Yeah?” Louis arranges his face into his most charming smirk, leaning artfully against the wall. “Not used to strange men jumping out at you in bathrooms?”

“Uh – no, not really – I mean – that is to say – ”

The man’s face grows increasingly red as he stumbles over his words, as if unsure what the correct answer is. Okay, so it’s obvious the man isn’t used to flirting. Or maybe he’s just not used to flirting with _men_.

Louis dials it down a little, holding out his hand for the man to shake. “Hi, I’m Louis.”

“Um. I’m Marcel…?” His words lilt up into a question as he tentatively takes Louis’ hand and somehow shakes it without ever getting a proper grip on it. His eyes are an even nicer shade up close, Louis notes. Even the glasses seem to suit him, somehow enhancing his strong jawline rather than detracting from his handsomeness. 

“I’ve not washed my hands.” The man – _Marcel_ – blurts, immediately turning an even more alarming shade of red.

Louis just laughs, wondering how to make this adorable man calm down enough to agree to go on a date with him – and why the hell he cares so much whether Marcel says yes. He could probably lie to Calvin and the lads and get the tickets anyway. He’s a pretty good fibber when he has to be. He turns the flirty grin back up, careful not to verge into creepy leering territory. He can already tell Marcel will be easily scared off. 

“Always like a man with good hygiene.” Louis is aiming for light-hearted and charming, but Marcel starts nodding vehemently, his eyes going very wide behind his glasses. They really are a lovely shade of green.

“Yes! I agree! The number of men I have seen not wash their hands after using the bathroom is horrendous, or they wash them without soap, or they simply – ” He cuts himself off as a thought presumably occurs to him. “Not that I watch men in bathrooms – I just happen to see things – not _things_, I don’t look at anything, I just – oh goodness!”

He looks on the verge of hyperventilating, so Louis takes pity on him, despite how entertaining his embarrassed rambling is.

“You’re health conscious, not a pervert. Got it.”

Louis’ words don’t seem to help and now the man really can’t catch his breath, his throat making dreadful gasping sounds as he attempts to get air into his lungs. Louis grabs onto his forearms, and watches Marcel’s eyes widen as he splutters, his breathing uneven and his chest heaving. It would be amusing if Louis wasn’t genuinely scared the man might pass out on him. He wishes he’d listened to his mum’s first aid tips more attentively when he was a child.

“Do you – can you follow my breathing?” Louis tries, deliberately making his exhales more pronounced. Marcel seems to become even more distressed, pulling out of Louis’ arms and gesturing frantically towards the door.

“You want to go out?”

Marcel nods jerkily, a strand of his meticulously gelled hair falling loose onto his forehead. He’s still hyperventilating.

Louis helps him out of the toilets and back into the main area of the pub. He heads towards the door, assuming Marcel wants some fresh air, but he’s intercepted by the female companion Marcel always sits with.

“What did you do to him?” She sounds incredibly menacing as she replaces Louis’ hand on Marcel’s back.

“Nothing! We were having a conversation about hygiene.” He says, hanging back as she guides Marcel back to his seat and rummages around in a satchel placed under the table. He feels useless, but he doesn’t want to distress Marcel further. Plus, the female companion still looks vaguely like she wants to chop his head off.

It doesn’t take long for the woman to find what she was looking for and she triumphantly passes an inhaler to Marcel who immediately takes several pulls. The woman takes her seat opposite him while Louis remains awkwardly stood behind her. Within thirty seconds, Marcel’s wheezing has calmed enough that he no longer sounds like he’s going to pass out. He’s still bright red, but Louis thinks it might have more to do with embarrassment than breathlessness.

Once the woman seems satisfied that Marcel isn’t dying, she turns her attention back to Louis. “So who’s the guy who made my little brother have an asthma attack?”

Louis ignores the faint jeering of his friends from across the room and holds out his hand in greeting for the second time this evening. He’s incredibly relieved to find out the woman is Marcel’s sister and not a girlfriend. “I’m Louis. And I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Just wanted to compliment Marcel on his - admittedly sticky - sweater vest.”

Both brother and sister make funny little noises at that, though Louis only has eyes for Marcel whose face is caught somewhere between embarrassed and pleased.

“He spilled beer down it.” The sister helpfully explains as if Louis didn’t witness the whole scene.

“Ginger beer.” Marcel corrects immediately.

“Well how about I buy you a replacement ginger beer – and some dinner to go with it? Next week sometime?”

Okay, it’s not Louis’ smoothest attempt at asking someone out, but he does have an audience and Marcel’s sister still seems pretty standoffish. Marcel doesn’t leap at the offer at any rate, mouth opening in almost comic surprise. After a moment, his sister thumps him on the arm like she did earlier.

“Or not…?” Louis hedges, uncomfortable when the silence goes on too long. He doesn’t think the disappointment brewing in his gut has much to do with football tickets.

“You want to…have dinner with me?”

“Yes. On a date.” Louis clarifies because there’s no reason to beat around the bush. Either the pretty man in the sweater vest wants to go out with him or he doesn’t.

“Marcel, for god’s sake!” The sister hisses when Marcel continues to gawk silently.

Marcel clears his throat heavily. “I – yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, okay. I will have dinner with you, Louis.” He says it primly, nudging his glasses up his nose with two long fingers.

The sister slumps back in her chair. “Thank god.”

Louis ignores her comment in favour of handing Marcel his phone. “Pop your number in there, then.”

“I don’t have an iPhone.” Marcel informs him as he takes Louis’ phone, a rather battered iPhone 6. “If that’s going to be an issue, let me know.”

The sister groans and puts her face in her hands. Louis’ just confused.

Marcel sits up a little straighter in his seat as he inputs his number. “Because some people are very passionate about the superiority of Apple products, but I’m not, you see.”

Louis doesn’t see, or at least he doesn’t see why Marcel felt the need to bring it up like it’s of utmost importance, but he can already tell that Marcel’s thought process is a little bit quirky. With anyone else it would piss him off, but with Marcel it just seems to make him more endearing. It makes Louis want to get to know him better, to learn how his brain connects all these dots that Louis’ own probably hasn’t even considered.

“I don’t think that will be an issue, no.”

Marcel smiles at him, a careful little thing that still harbours some disbelief. Louis takes his phone back and immediately clicks on the new ‘Marcel Styles’ contact, tapping out a quick text. “There. Now you have my number too. Feel free to text anytime.”

“He will.” The sister says, a little too forcefully. Louis can’t tell whether she wants her brother to text him or not.

Louis directs his departing smile at Marcel. “Hopefully see you soon, then. Sorry again about the whole asthma attack thing – it’s not every day I take someone’s breath away!”

There’s a cute little frown on Marcel’s face as Louis turns around to head back to his group at the back of the room, already praying they don’t do something embarrassing like burst into applause. He’s not sure that final cheesy line landed very well, but at least he got the lad’s number. Can’t complain at that.

When he gets back to the table his friends crowd around him immediately, all asking what the hell happened.

“Got his number, didn’t I?” Louis says, trying not to smile too wide.

“He agreed to go out with you?” Calvin asks, incredulous.

“Yeah. Cheers for the vote of confidence.”

“But he was crying when he came out the toilets!” Oli chimes in.

“No, he wasn’t. He just needed his inhaler.” 

Everyone bursts into laughter again, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care. He got the man in the sweater vest’s number and made him blush a pretty shade of pink.

“Alright, Lou, stop looking so smug just ‘cause I have to cough up for the ticket now.”

Truthfully, Louis has forgotten all about the footie match and the fact that he doesn’t even need to go out with Marcel if he doesn’t want to. He definitely does want to, but his mates don’t need to know that.

They decide to buy another round of drinks and as soon as everyone’s distracted, Louis chances another glance at Marcel’s table. Much to his disappointment, Marcel seems to have left. Only the sister remains sat there, typing furiously on her phone as she finishes her glass of wine. He wonders where Marcel has gone, whether he lives nearby or has a long journey home.

“Oi, we’re off to Eden in a bit, you coming?” Oli asks as he hands Louis another beer. Louis nods in vague agreement, mind still elsewhere.

When they hit the club later that night, Louis doesn’t even attempt to dance with anyone, much less take them home. He pretends it’s because he’s tired after a long work week, not because he can’t stop thinking about the new entry in his phone which is burning a hole in his pocket.

*

The thing is, Louis didn’t mean to actually go on the date. There had been no rule in Calvin’s stupid little dare that Louis had to follow through once he’d got his yes. The plan was simply to not contact Marcel and make sure the whole thing ended before it even began. Also, despite Louis’ initial high when Marcel had said yes, the fact remained that they likely had nothing in common and any attempt to spend time together would be a humiliating disaster.

And yet, here Louis is at 6.40pm on a Tuesday evening spritzing himself with cologne as he gets ready for a date that was never meant to happen. When Marcel had sent him a hesitant little introductory text, Louis hadn’t been able to stop himself from typing out a response. They’d exchanged messages all of Sunday and before Louis knew it, they’d settled on a place and time for their dinner date. Obviously, Louis could just not go, but imagining Marcel’s disappointed little frown when he realised he had been stood up has Louis grabbing his keys and heading to the restaurant.

He has no excuse for the way he made sure his hair was styled to messy perfection. Or the fact that he left work early just so he’d have forty-five minutes to decide on an outfit and yet is still running late. He just likes to look nice in public, especially in a semi-posh restaurant. It has nothing to do with the green-eyed, sweater vest-wearing man he’s about to meet for dinner.

He’s convinced the entire evening will be a disaster. He knows he generally comes across as a loud, confident person, but when he’s nervous or uncomfortable, he has been known to clam up a bit. And based on their first meeting, Marcel is more than a little awkward. What if they have to sit through an entire meal in awkward silence? What if Marcel drones on about maths or something equally boring the entire evening? Or worse, what if Marcel finds Louis too boring and dumb to put up with?

To say Louis is regretting his life choices by the time he reaches the restaurant is an understatement, but his mum raised him to be a semi decent person so he takes a deep breath, fiddles with his fringe one more time, and heads inside.

*

Marcel had squeaked in delight when Louis had responded to his initial text. Despite Gemma’s reassurances, he really hadn’t thought Louis would answer him. It all seemed too good to be true, that someone that gorgeous and charismatic would be interested in him. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. After some coaching from his sister and a little bit of frantic googling, he’d managed to sustain a text conversation and ultimately set up a dinner date with Louis. Then he’d promptly had an anxiety attack over the prospect of an entire evening with Louis’ undivided attention on him.

Gemma had insisted on coming over to help him get ready, though he’d resisted her attempts to give him a makeover. He didn’t like putting too much importance on superficial things like keeping up with the latest trends. Besides, he liked the way he dressed. There was nothing better than spending a morning rummaging through charity shops and emerging victorious with a nice vintage find. 

He’d put on one of his nicer pairs of cream trousers, a button up shirt and a green jumper he’d bought second-hand on eBay because Gemma said it brought out his eyes. He might not be sold on most superficial trivialities, but he still wanted to look nice. 

He’d liked his outfit well enough when he’d put it on, but now that he’s at the restaurant, waiting for the waiter to find their reservation, he can’t help but wonder if he looks good enough for this date. He feels more than a little nauseous, butterflies swooping in erratic patterns inside his belly, and he can’t decide whether he’s more excited or nervous. He really hopes Louis doesn’t run for the hills after this.

He is the first to arrive and after being shown to their table, he decides to politely wait until Louis joins him to order a drink. He regrets that decision when seven o’clock comes round and there’s still no sign of his date. He wonders if it will be like last time all over again, being stood up by someone who had no real interest in him in the first place. Would it be more humiliating to eat by himself or to simply leave without ordering? Thank goodness he’s at a different restaurant to last time; Marcel doesn’t need to be socially skilled to know being stood up twice in a fortnight isn’t a good look.

By ten past seven, the butterflies in his stomach have definitely become more unpleasant than excited and he’s wondering whether he should text Gemma to come and join him just so he doesn’t have to see the pitying looks from the serving staff when he leaves. He’s so busy fiddling with his phone, repeatedly opening then closing the messaging app, that he startles when the chair opposite him moves, Louis falling heavily onto the seat. 

“Marcel – sorry I’m late. I missed my bus and the traffic wasn’t great which I probably should’ve predicted, but anyway, I’m sorry. Have you ordered yet?”

Marcel blinks, taking in the messy swoop of hair across Louis’ forehead, his slightly flushed cheeks and the cut of his denim jacket on his shoulders. “No, I haven’t. I thought it would be more polite to wait for you.”

“Oh, well, thanks.” Louis seems almost a little embarrassed by Marcel’s statement. “I really am sorry for being late.”

“That’s okay. I was half convinced you’d decided to stand me up.” He says it with a little chuckle, but it only serves to make Louis look more uncomfortable as he grabs his menu to flick through, eyes avoiding Marcel’s.

Marcel follows his lead and picks up his own menu, wondering if the squirming in his tummy will make it difficult to eat. He keeps getting the annoying urge to comb his fingers through his hair, but he knows from experience that such a gesture does no favours for his meticulously gelled down curls. The last thing he wants is for them to get frizzy while he’s on a date with quite possibly the most attractive man in Manchester.

He glances up at Louis over his menu, wondering if he should start up a conversation. He can’t think of what to say, though, and the only thing his mind comes up with are the tomato facts he memorised for his previous failure of a date. Gemma would kill him if he opened with those.

Luckily, the waiter shows up before the quiet between them can turn awkward and Louis asks him if he wants to share some wine.

“Um. I don’t really drink alcohol.”

“Oh, okay.” Louis doesn’t sound judgmental, but Marcel still feels his cheeks pinken. He knows there’s nothing wrong in not drinking, but he also knows it’s a foreign concept to a lot of his peers, another thing that marks him as different, strange.

“In which case I’ll have the bacon burger and a pint of Stella please. Unless you want a starter, Marcel?”

Marcel shakes his head. He’s definitely not hungry enough to do it justice. “May I please have the lentil and goats cheese salad and a ginger beer?”

He puts his menu down, satisfied, as the waiter scurries off to put their order in. He looks up to see Louis’ mouth screwed up.

“You like those lentil things?”

“Um. Yes?” Marcel would have thought it was obvious given that he just ordered a dish prominently featuring them.

“Urgh. They’re disgusting. They taste mouldy.”

Marcel immediately wishes he’d picked the veggie burger instead, especially as Louis launches into a rant about the many crimes lentils have committed and how he’s personally been victim to them. He’s just moved on to why chickpeas are equally bad when he abruptly stops himself.

“Shit, sorry. My sisters always tell me to stop going on about food trends I hate.”

Marcel blinks. “My sister says I talk about tomatoes too much so it would be hypocritical of me to criticise you for the same thing.”

“So what you’re saying is that this is a non-judgemental-about-food-rants zone?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Marcel smiles shyly and feels his stomach swoop as Louis returns the gesture with a grin of his own.

“What is it about tomatoes, then?” Louis asks as their drinks arrive. The waiter thankfully pours the ginger beer into the glass for him so that Marcel doesn’t have to risk any spillage.

“Hmm?”

“Why are you so passionate about them? Is there a story behind why you hate them so much?”

“Oh no, I don’t hate them!” Marcel corrects, horrified. “I talk about them too much because I love them. Well, I love _growing_ them anyway. I grow all kinds of vegetables.”

For a second, Marcel thinks Louis is about to laugh in his face, but instead his face melts into an endeared sort of grin.

“Yeah?” He asks. “How did you get into that? I’ve always been shit at gardening stuff.”

“I mainly learnt from my mum. We have quite a big garden at my family home in Cheshire and she couldn’t manage the upkeep by herself, so she taught me how to help a little. That was before she met my stepdad, though. He mows the lawn and everything now. I suppose the vegetable growing became a hobby of mine. I know it’s boring to a lot of people, but I think it’s fun.”

“Who cares what anyone else thinks? If you enjoy it, then that’s all that matters.”

Marcel smiles down at his lap, making a mental note to recount Louis’ words to his sister later_. Take that, Gemma._ “Thanks, Louis.”

Their food arrives then and there’s a natural pause as they rearrange their drinks to make room and try their meals.

“So what do you like besides tomatoes?” Louis says, thankfully having swallowed his mouthful first; Marcel doesn’t like impolite eaters.

“Um. I quite like avocadoes. And bananas. And chocolate – I don’t just like healthy foods.”

“Noted, but I actually meant in general. What do you do for fun?”

“Oh. Hm. I enjoy baking cakes and reading and watching films, that kind of thing. I’m rather boring according to my sister. She keeps trying to get me to go to yoga classes with her, but I’m not sure it’s my sort of thing. I am quite flexible, mind you.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, eyebrow raised suggestively. Marcel’s cheeks grow hot. 

“I mean – I am, but not – I wasn’t – oh dear – ”

“Sorry, I’m only teasing you.” Louis says, reaching across to pat Marcel’s hand.

“I’m quite into crafts as well.” Marcel says to steer the conversation back into safe territory. He immediately regrets it when his brain catches up with his mouth and he realises how lame he sounds.

“Crafts?” Louis asks, attempting to hold his burger together as he eats.

Marcel really wishes he would stop blushing. It feels like every time he speaks, he becomes aware that Louis is observing him and heat automatically rushes to his face. Still, he refuses to let himself be shamed for harmless hobbies, thank you very much, so he forces himself to raise his chin as he nods.

“My mum got very into knitting when she was expecting my youngest siblings.” Louis continues, putting his disintegrating burger back onto the plate and cutting it up with his cutlery instead. “She started selling some of it on eBay because she made so much. Mainly scarfs and hats, that kind of thing.”

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Six. Including two sets of twins” Louis says with a laugh and Marcel feels his eyes bug out in response.

“Wow, that is a lot. I don’t think children like me very much.”

Louis frowns at that, apparently put out by this information. “You don’t want children of your own, then?”

“Oh, no, I do.” Marcel hurries to reassure, firmly not thinking about lots of tiny Louis-es running around his flat. “I’m just not really around little ones that much so I’m never sure how to act around them. No one in my family has any babies.”

“You can always borrow my siblings if you want some practice.”

“Okay...” Marcel hides his smile by eating another forkful of salad and then changes the topic. “eBay’s good for selling stuff actually.”

“I mainly buy stuff on it to be honest.”

“What kind of stuff? I think it’s excellent for finding vintage clothes without having to go to a specialist shop. I’ve bought so many sweater vests on there.”

“Oh my god, me too!” Louis sounds delighted by this revelation, putting his fork down to give Marcel his full attention. “Well, not sweater vests, but my wardrobe is overflowing with vintage sweatshirts and band tees. I can’t stop buying them. It’s addictive.”

“It is, isn’t it? I love that little high you get when you win an auction.”

“Oh definitely. I sometimes sneakily bid at work depending when the auction ends. The only time I got caught was when I celebrated a win a bit too enthusiastically.”

Marcel laughs at that mental image, especially when Louis starts re-enacting his over the top fist pumps, nearly taking a waiter’s eye out. If Gemma did the same thing, Marcel would be embarrassed, but with Louis it’s actually funny and Marcel feels weirdly proud to be seated opposite someone who radiates such joyous energy. He sort of wishes there was a neon sign that said _he’s my date _over his head.

“It doesn’t help that the movement disconnected my earphones from my phone and the whole office was treated to the wonderful tune that is Fake Tales of San Francisco.”

“I quite like the Arctic Monkeys.” Marcel says. Louis looks momentarily taken aback that Marcel knew the song and he wonders if he should be offended. He waits to see what Louis’ response is.

Louis pushes his plate to the side slightly and sits back in his chair. “We’ll have to go to a gig next time they come here.”

“I’d like that a lot.” Marcel smiles down at his empty plate, only looking up again when a waiter appears next to them.

“Would you like to see the dessert menu, sirs?”

“Want to split a pudding, Marcel?” Louis asks, already reaching for the menus the waiter is offering.

Marcel’s pretty full, actually, but he’s never been asked to split a dessert on a date before and it sounds kind of romantic. He watches Louis scan the menu, noticing for the first time how long his eyelashes are. It’s like everything about Louis is designed to make Marcel melt into a puddle of gooey adoration.

“What do you fancy then?”

Marcel has been far too busy ogling him to even know what’s on the menu. He snaps his eyes to it and blurts out the first words he sees just to stop himself from saying what his stupid mushy brain comes up with: _you_.

“Ice-cream. Strawberry ice-cream.”

He realises a nanosecond later that he doesn’t even like strawberry ice-cream.

“Okay, sure, if you like.” Louis says.

“Um. Actually – I don’t know why I said that. I’d rather have mint chocolate chip or even vanilla. Or the chocolate mousse.”

Louis makes a funny face at him. Marcel’s chest tightens.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I did that. It was the first thing I saw – I don’t know what kind of thing you like and I didn’t want to be presumptuous, but I wasn’t paying very close attention to the menu. And now I just sound weird. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, love.” Louis says kindly, turning Marcel’s menu so it’s easier for him to read. “I’m always blurting things out without meaning to. Can never hold my tongue. I pretty much eat anything, though, so pick whatever you like.”

“Can we go for the chocolate mousse please?”

Louis agrees easily and orders a mousse with two spoons. Marcel only drops a tiny bit on his shirt when Louis tells him about his teenage love for skateboarding.

Louis insists on paying the bill and while Marcel knows he ought to put up more of a fight to pay his half because the traditional (heterosexual) idea of one person paying for dates is outdated and silly, there’s a part of him that delights in being treated – a part of him that, unbidden, views it as a sign of Louis’ genuine appreciation for his company. Logically, he knows Louis is just being polite, but Marcel can’t help the butterflies that return to his stomach.

“Can I walk you home, Marcel?”

Marcel is startled out of his thoughts and manages to trip over his own feet as they leave the restaurant, one loafer flying off as he stumbles forwards.

“Whoops.” He blushes fiercely as he bends down to retrieve it, but Louis merely offers an arm for support as he slides it back on. “I’m a bit clumsy.”

“I think I know that given I met you in a bathroom because you spilled beer on yourself.”

“Ginger beer.” Marcel corrects automatically. “And technically I met you before that at the bar.”

“Where you were also stumbling around like a baby deer.”

“Because of _your _intoxicated friend’s clumsiness.”

“True, true. Okay, fine. You’re only a minimally clumsy baby deer.”

Marcel’s brain feels dangerously mushy. “I – I’m not a baby deer.”

He’s so busy trying to compute the fact that Louis is referring to him as an animal in an endeared sort of way that he manages to trip again, this time over an uneven slab of pavement. Luckily, Louis is close enough to steady him before he goes flying, but their resultant proximity does nothing to calm Marcel’s rapid heartbeat.

“Can I walk you home, Marcel?” Louis repeats and it’s not sleazy, but there’s definitely an intensity to the way he says it.

Marcel finds himself nodding, mesmerised by the different flecks in Louis’ eyes before he suddenly regains control of his body and starts shaking his head. “No! I mean – thank you for the offer, but I’d prefer to walk myself home. Another time – only if you want to, of course! You might not want to go on a second date with me which is fine. But maybe if we did, you could walk me home then? Or not, if you’d prefer not to –”

“Marcel, breathe. It’s fine. It was a bit forward of me anyway, I’m sorry. Just text me when you get home so I know you got back safely, yeah?”

“I – yes.”

“Good. And for the record, I had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too!” Marcel says, hoping his enthusiasm doesn’t seem too silly. He doesn’t want Louis to get the wrong impression having just declined his offer. It’s not that Marcel doesn’t want to spend more time with Louis. Gemma will probably berate him for it later, but he’s fiercely protective of his little flat and Louis is still a relative stranger; he can’t quite bring himself to let the man into that little safety bubble just yet. The thought of Louis seeing the lack of personal pictures on the units or his uncool DVD collection is enough to send him into a cold sweat, let alone the inevitable question of sexual intimacy and Marcel’s (lack of) experience in that department.

No, it’s best not to spoil the evening with the inevitable anxiety attack that would follow Louis walking him home.

“Right then,” Louis claps his hands together decisively, leaning in close enough to have Marcel holding his breath. Warm lips press against Marcel’s cheek, lingering as an involuntary shiver goes down his spine before retreating again.

“Night, Marce.”

“Night…” Marcel responds, stomach somersaulting as Louis walks backwards, waving at him.

He feels in a trance the whole way home, unable to even focus on his music on the bus which is thankfully almost empty. When he gets back to his flat, he sits next to Esme on the sofa and watches as she meticulously washes her paws, tapping his phone against his thigh.

Louis had said to text him when he got home safely, but he doesn’t want to seem too clingy. Maybe Louis had just meant it in a polite, offhand way, not expecting Marcel to follow through. Maybe Louis had been lying about having had a great time and Marcel had imagined their instant connection simply because Louis put up with him through dinner. Oh god, are he and Gemma going to have to find a new pub for their meet ups?

He unlocks his phone, about to message his sister to whinge about the situation, when it vibrates with an incoming text from Louis. He panics and drops his phone, his cat glaring at the sudden disturbance.

_Hope you got home okay. I almost missed my stop cos my mind was elsewhere aha ;) Had a really good time tonight and would love to do it again if you’re up for it..? Have a good night xx_

Marcel squeals, half-heartedly petting his cat in apology as he reads and re-reads the text. He screenshots the message just in case it disappears or something (unlikely, but he doesn’t want to risk it) and then stares at it in his camera roll for a bit longer.

He realises that he’s taking a while to reply so quickly composes a response and sends it off before he can second guess himself.

_I got home safely, thank you :) I would love to do it again sometime! xx_

He feels a bit awkward putting kisses at the end – it’s definitely not his usual texting style – but it’s what Louis did and he thinks it’s safest to copy his texting etiquette. Plus, kisses are used to show affection and he does feel incredibly, ridiculously affectionate towards Louis right now. He kind of wishes he’d squashed his anxiety and let Louis walk him home just so he could have spent a bit more time basking in his company.

He dances around goofily as he gets ready for bed, washing the gel out of his hair and brushing his teeth, elated at what has to be his first ever good date. He even forgets to ring his sister like he promised; she sends him an irritated text as he climbs into bed asking him how it went. The fact that he’s actually able to respond positively makes his heart soar.

He hopes Louis is climbing into bed with an equally wide smile on his face, looking forward to seeing Marcel again.

*

For their second date, much to Louis’ excitement, they go apple picking just out of the city. It was Marcel’s idea and he’d been adorably hesitant when he’d suggested it. Honestly, there were very few things Marcel could have suggested that Louis wouldn’t have agreed to (maybe, like, yoga. He really doesn’t like yoga). Marcel didn’t seem to be aware of his power, however, stuttering and stumbling over his words on the phone as he sent Louis a picture of the flyer for the orchard and anticipated Louis’ swift rejection of the idea.

Of course, Louis had done the opposite and enthusiastically agreed and now they’re climbing off the bus by a long track leading up to a house. They are surrounded by fields despite only being an hour out of Manchester.

Marcel is wearing his usual black slacks with a purple shirt and sweater vest combo, but rather than brogues, he has on a pair of red ankle-length wellies. He had carefully rolled up the bottoms of his trousers on the bus so that they wouldn’t get grubby. They hadn’t had much rain recently, but as Marcel said, one couldn’t be too careful when it came to mud.

Louis is just enjoying how adorable Marcel looks in his ensemble, almost trendily unfashionable in the way that music festival goers attempt to achieve, and entirely unaware of how good he looks. Louis had spent the whole journey surreptitiously checking him out and glaring at any other passengers who shot them funny looks. He tried not to think about the fact that his own friends would have been staring too had they seen him and Marcel on a second date when they didn’t even know he went on the first one. He knows he should’ve said something by now – to both Marcel and his friends – but it all feels too good to be true; he doesn’t want to risk everything crashing down by bringing Marcel into his daily reality.

He’s had infatuated crushes before, of course he has, and various boyfriends and lovers, but he’s never clicked with someone the way he has with Marcel. They’re so similar in so many ways – in their music tastes and love of shopping and family values – yet at the same time Marcel is unlike anyone Louis has ever met. The way he dresses and thinks is objectively very different to most of the people Louis matches with on dating apps, but Louis just finds himself hanging off his every word, constantly wanting to text him just to hear about the world according to Marcel. He’s stunning, but in a unique way, and Louis knows he’ll never meet anyone else like him; he can’t mess this up.

Any pretence that he doesn’t want to date Marcel had flown out the window before their food had even arrived on their first date. His friends haven’t brought it up again, they don’t even know he actually went out with Marcel, but Louis already couldn’t care less about the football tickets. Who needs footie when he can be collecting giant plastic buckets and heading into an apple orchard with someone as enchanting as Marcel?

They set to work picking apples (the best-looking ones for Louis and the dented, wonky ones for Marcel because ‘fruit comes in all shapes and sizes, Louis, and they all deserve to be appreciated’). It’s pretty good weather for it, not too hot or too cold, and they make good progress as they chat about their weeks and Marcel’s cat.

“Is this something you’ve done before with your mates?” Louis asks, shaking his bucket to try and create more space.

“Um. No, not really. I don’t have a lot of ‘mates’.”

He says it very matter-of-factly, but Louis still feels like he accidentally poked at a sore spot. He gets the urge to apologise, but he reckons that will only make Marcel feel more uncomfortable.

“Well, they’re a bit overrated anyway.”

Marcel laughs. “What, friends?”

“Yeah. Well, mine anyway.”

“I hope you don’t say that to their faces!” He strains upwards to pick some of the higher up fruit, one trouser leg unrolling over his wellie. “They seemed very – um – supportive at the pub.”

Louis suddenly feels for the apple trees, how they’re shaken and shaken until the apples inevitably plunge to the ground. 

“Mm. They like to stick their noses into my business, that’s for sure.” _And you let them, providing they buy you football tickets_, Louis’ brain helpfully supplies.

“I have a friend from university, Liam, who is a bit like that. He used to be very invested in me because I tended to be by myself a lot.”

On the one hand, Louis is relieved that the conversation has shifted back to Marcel, but on the other, he’s not sure he likes the sound of a friend who’s intensely interested in Marcel.

“Had a bit of a crush on you, did he?” Louis tries to keep the bite out of his voice. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t know this Liam guy and it’s only their second date. Hell, he’s not even meant to seriously like Marcel.

Marcel chuckles as he picks up his bucket with both hands and heads off down the row of trees. He doesn’t seem to have realised that one of his trouser legs is currently longer than the other. “Oh gosh, of course not! He used to set me up on dates with other people.”

“So, you dated a bit in uni, then?” Louis asks, unsure if this version of events is better than the lovesick, possessive best friend scenario. Marcel might have said on their first date that he’s never had a proper relationship, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t _dated around _a bit.

“No, not really. All Liam-arranged dates were invariably disastrous. They tended to be blind dates – I don’t think Liam told them who they were meeting so when they showed up at the location and saw me, I think most of them left before I could spot them. I do have a track record of being stood up.” 

He laughs self-deprecatingly, but Louis doesn’t smile.

“That’s awful.” He says.

Marcel shrugs, transferring the bucket into one hand so he can push his glasses up with the other. “I think it became a bit of a running joke amongst my year group. By the end, people were daring each other to go out with me.”

Louis’ grip slackens and his bucket drops to the ground with a loud thump, apples spilling out and rolling along the grass.

“Oh dear!” Marcel says, immediately crouching down to grab the apples at his feet. “It seems my clumsiness is contagious.”

Louis forces a smile onto his face, bending down and starting to put the apples back into his bucket. Marcel keeps talking at him as he helpfully collects the fruit, lifting up the bottom of his sweater vest as a makeshift sling to hold the apples, but Louis can’t register anything over the roar in his ears.

Eventually, Marcel must notice his unresponsiveness, guiding the apples out of his makeshift hammock and into the bucket before reaching out to touch Louis’ arm.

“Are you alright, Louis?”

“Y-yeah. Sorry. Just a bit…embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. If I’m a clumsy deer, you can be a clumsy hedgehog.”

“I – what?” Louis is so taken aback that he forgets about the all-consuming guilt churning inside of him for a moment.

“Your hair is all – messy. It sort of reminds me of a hedgehog. I just learnt how to make an origami hedgehog. It was surprisingly difficult even though I’m hardly a beginner anymore.”

“Okay…” Louis says, drawing the word out. Not for the first time, he wonders what on earth goes on inside Marcel’s brain.

“Ooh, look, there’s a ladder over there. Come on, those trees must be bigger.”

Marcel strides off towards a row further down which does indeed have a couple of ladders scattered about, the apples perched higher up on the branches. Louis swallows down his desire to come clean there and then; cutting the date short when Marcel is so clearly enjoying himself would make Louis even more of a horrible person. He follows after Marcel who is already positioning a ladder against the trunk of the nearest tree.

“I’ll hold it, you climb.” Louis says, standing beside the ladder and grabbing hold of it to keep it in place. “Give me the bucket.”

Marcel is surprisingly athletic despite his relatively slim frame and he confidentially scales the ladder until he reaches the top, immediately plucking apples from the branches and delicately dropping them into the bucket below.

“You’re good at this.” Louis says, Marcel preening in response. He looks a bit like an angel at the top of a Christmas tree.

“I used to go to rock-climbing club at school.”

“You did?”

“Only because my mum wanted me to join a sports club so I could ‘stay active and make friends’, but I hated rugby and football, so rock-climbing seemed like the best option. My mum couldn’t complain because technically it was an activity with other people.”

Louis smiles at that, imagining a small Marcel in a fluorescent helmet carefully ascending the rock wall in his school gym.

It turns out, however, to be just as well that Louis is stabilising the ladder because as Marcel is climbing down, his foot catches in his unrolled trouser leg and he loses his footing. Louis attempts to grab him while stopping the ladder from falling towards him, but he only manages to slow his fall. Luckily, Marcel was nearly down so it’s not far to fall, but Louis still winces as Marcel lands heavily on his bum with an “Oomph!”.

“Oh dear.” Marcel groans, gingerly climbing to his feet before Louis can offer any assistance and twisting round at the waist to try and see his behind.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Marcel says, causing Louis to worry for a second before he continues: “I think I have mud on my bottom.”

Louis can’t help the laugh that escapes him as Marcel spins round to reveal that his trousers are indeed splattered with mud and grass stains. He sets about trying to brush the worst of it off, but forgets that Marcel doesn’t seem to be used to people in his space as the man yelps and jumps away from him.

“Sorry, sorry!” Louis holds up his hands placatingly. 

“That’s okay.” Marcel says, palm still pressed to his chest. “Um. That would help actually. If you could…?”

He turns around again slowly, and Louis carefully brushes the worst of the debris off his back and trousers, making a conscious effort not to linger in his movements and make Marcel uncomfortable. When he feels Marcel’s breathing start to speed up, he quickly moves away again. The last thing he wants is to cause Marcel to have another asthma attack.

Marcel coughs and pushes his glasses up his nose. He looks embarrassed and unsure again, the talkative confidence from earlier gone. He’s flushed, but not in that delicate way he does when louis teases him, and his eyes have a distinct sheen to them. As Louis watches the way he fiddles with his pockets and adjusts the rolled-up ends of his trousers, an idea strikes him.

He takes a deep breath, definitely glad his mates aren’t here to witness this, and then leans back enough for gravity to work its magic. He falls to the ground far less gracefully than Marcel and the spot where he lands is slightly less muddy, but he still feels the unpleasant sogginess of the ground soaking into his jeans.

“Whoops a daisy…” He says cheerfully as he climbs to his feet again, doing his best not to get his hands grubby in the process. “Looks like we’ll both have wet bums on the bus home.”

Marcel blinks owlishly, his surprised expression morphing into understanding. A small smile forms on his lips. “Thank you, Louis.”

“No problem. Think we’ve got enough apples for now?”

Marcel nods. “It gets very expensive if you fill the buckets too much.”

They make their way back to the front building where they pay for their fruit and head out to the bus stop, sharing a look when the lady at the till points out that their trousers are muddy.

As soon as they’re seated on the bus, Marcel shyly asks Louis is he wants to play ‘I spy’ and while he remembers the game being unbearably boring during long car journeys with his sisters, Louis agrees. As is becoming a recurring phenomenon, Marcel has a way of turning even the dullest of things into something fun. He picks interesting objects for Louis to guess, not resorting to ‘S’ for sky of ‘F’ for field like Daisy and Phoebe used to, and doesn’t let Louis give up until he gets it right, giving increasingly puzzling clues that are meant to help.

“Louis?” Marcel asks when they reach the outskirts of the city.

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“It’s Sunday so probably my usual routine of sleeping in as late as possible and pretending Monday isn’t about to happen. Might see if anyone’s up for a game of footie.”

“Monday gets a disproportionate amount of hate.” Marcel says, then shakes his head as if to clear it of distracting thoughts. “You probably don’t want to see me two days running – I know I can get a bit annoying – but if you did, you could, um, come round…? To my flat I mean. And we could make something with the apples. Or not because you said you don’t like cooking. And you’d probably rather play football with your friends, but it’s just – it’s an idea. If you want.”

Marcel shrugs, tucking non-existent fly-away hairs behind his ears and almost knocking his glasses off in the process. He has cute ears, Louis thinks absently. All half-formed ideas of finally breaking it off with Marcel and finding a new pub for pre-drinks disappear as the image of Marcel with rosy cheeks and flour in his hair come to mind, holding out a steaming pie like some kind of Disney character.

“I’d love to come round and bake something. Just make sure it isn’t too complicated? Unless you want to do all the work…”

“We could make a crumble…?” Marcel’s face seems almost pinched with the effort of holding back a grin, the dimple in his cheek giving him away.

“Sure. My mum used to make crumbles for pudding after Sunday roasts.”

“Mine too. I have a pretty simple recipe I use. Providing you remember to take it out the oven, it’s easy peasy.”

“I’m guessing that oven tip comes from experience?”

Marcel shoots him a sideways glance. “Maybe.”

Louis snorts; Marcel really doesn’t realise how hilarious he is.

The comfortable silence between them is broken by Louis’ phone buzzing with a text.

_Calvin: Footie and pub tomorrow?? _

Louis reckons it shouldn’t be such an easy decision, but apparently his descent into Marcel-inspired insanity is well and truly underway.

_Louis: Can’t mate. Already meeting Lottie. _

He does feel guilty for the fib, and for the way he makes sure his phone screen is angled away from Marcel’s line of sight, but he tells himself it’ll be easier to explain in person. He’ll come clean next time he sees the lads.

“You really don’t have to come tomorrow, you know.”

Marcel is looking out the window and Louis waits until he turns back towards him to speak.

“I’ll do anything for a free pudding.” He says, picking at the flecks of mud on the seam of his jeans.

*

Louis is due to arrive any minute and Marcel is freaking out. He’s already cleaned the flat within an inch of its life, put Esmerelda’s best collar on and rang Gemma to ask whether he should rearrange his living room furniture. He’s in the process of placing every cooking utensil and ingredient they could possibly need on the kitchen counter, wondering if he’s over dressed, if he should have worn something more casual like the sweatshirt he got from his stepdad and only wears when he’s ill and definitely not leaving the flat.

On the one hand, he doesn’t want to look like he tried too hard to make both himself and the flat perfect for Louis’ visit, but on the other hand, he likes to put effort into things and doesn’t want to come across as a slob. Plus, Gemma had once made a comment about men in joggers looking especially appealing and he doesn’t want to give Louis too many ideas. He wouldn’t say no to, like, a cuddle, but he really doesn’t want to give Louis the impression that this baking meet-up is code for sex. Gemma had exasperatedly told him to get a grip, but Marcel thinks he’s rather justified in his concern. It’s not like he has experience in anything past first dates, but he’s watched enough romcoms to know that there are certain stages to relationships. Not that he and Louis are in a relationship, but still – he doesn’t want to give mixed signals.

He promised Gemma he wouldn’t bombard Louis with any more texts, having already anxiously asked him whether he was allergic to cats or food or cat food. Louis always responds in a very patient and reassuring manner, but his sister’s right that he’s probably coming across as annoying. He can’t help but be nervous, though; Louis is the first person outside of Liam and his family that he’s ever had inside his flat. The idea of being judged over his cushions or his fridge contents or anything else that makes up his little safe haven terrifies him.

He wants to impress Louis, yes, but more than that he wants to preserve the sanctity of his home and not let any negative reactions infiltrate it. He knows Louis is a kind, thoughtful person who wouldn’t be rude for the sake of it, but his palms won’t stop sweating in anticipation anyway. 

Luckily, before he can have a breakdown while rearranging the throw pillows on the sofa for the third time, the chime of the doorbell echoes through the flat. 

He tugs on his sweater vest one last time and hurries to the door, yanking it open a little too forcefully and almost falling over backwards.

Louis giggles and steadies him, leaning into the flat. Marcel blushes (as he still tends to do around Louis, darn it) and feels his arm do a silly little flourish to invite Louis in.

He leads Louis into the living room and rocks on his heels, his mind suddenly blank of conversation starters.

“Would you like a drink?” He asks half-heartedly, reverting to his primary school self when his mother made him invite a classmate round for tea.

Luckily for both of them, Louis isn’t one to let awkwardness linger.

“Sick cushions.” He comments, pointing at the sofa.

Marcel pats one of his antique cushions affectionately. “Thank you. My family thinks they’re ugly.”

Louis laughs, grabbing one to examine the tassels on it. “Nah, you just need to find one of those fringed lamps to go with it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Ooh, are they swans?”

Marcel turns around to see Louis gesturing at the origami swans on the windowsill. While cleaning up the flat, he’d picked up all his origami attempts off the coffee table and stuffed them into his wardrobe (along with anything else that could be deemed embarrassing), but he must have forgotten the swans.

“Um. Yes.”

“Do you know that gay swans exist? I read an article about it.” Louis leans in and smooths out a crease in the blue swan’s paper body. 

Marcel doesn’t believe in soulmate nonsense, he really doesn’t, but he can’t help the way his chest flutters at the thought that they read the same articles, possibly even the same news sites.

“I read about that too. A lot of animals actually show homosexual tendencies.”

“Pretty amusing to be honest. People get really wound up about something that’s just natural.”

Marcel nods, trying not to freak out about the fact that Louis is stood in his flat, talking about gay swans and complimenting cushions like Marcel’s very own version of prince charming. It’s just that no one else in his life would care enough about an article like that to bring it up to him. No one else would reverently examine his origami efforts like Louis is currently doing, fingers trailing over the swans as he places them back in their original positions. Marcel is trying very hard not to swoon like a Disney princess. Or start picturing the origami napkin holders they would have at their wedding.

He feels on edge and fond and flustered all at once as he gives Louis a mini tour of his flat, purposefully leaving out his bedroom since it feels a little too intimate; he can only go so far out of his comfort zone in one day. Louis comments on aspects of the décor he likes, Marcel thrilled to tell him the story of how he bought the hallway picture while in Italy with his family.

They end the tour in the kitchen, Louis looking suitably impressed at Marcel’s preparedness.

“Oh goodness, I forgot the butter!” Marcel exclaims, looking at the ingredients on the work surface. How he forgot such a basic ingredient is beyond him.

“Is it just in here?” Louis asks, already walking to the fridge. Marcel nods, trying not to worry about Louis seeing the contents of his fridge, which suddenly seems like an intimate thing to share. To stop himself from obsessing over Louis’ reaction to his homemade jam and various veggies, he sets about putting his apron on and grabbing the spare one for Louis.

Louis closes the fridge and comes back to the table brandishing the butter only to freeze with an odd look on his face when he sees what Marcel’s wearing.

“What?” Marcel asks, tying the apron strings into a bow behind him and blushing. Maybe it is a little feminine with its frills and embroidered pink hearts, but he saw it in the Argos catalogue and couldn’t resist. It was practical _and_ made him feel nice.

Louis shakes his head. “Nothing. It suits you.”

Marcel feels his cheeks get even hotter. He’s not sure if Louis’ remark is a compliment or not.

“Thank you…?”

Louis, presumably sensing his unease, takes a step towards him. “Seriously. You look very nice, all pretty in pink.”

Marcel almost chokes on his own spit, but recovers just in time as Louis leans in and presses his cool lips against Marcel’s cheek. Or maybe his lips aren’t that cold, it’s just Marcel’s warm skin making them feel that way. Louis presses another kiss right at the corner of Marcel’s mouth and all thoughts of heat conduction evaporate from his brain.

He’s expecting it when Louis kisses him properly, but he still jumps slightly in surprise at the feeling of lips colliding. It’s not his first kiss, but he hasn’t had much experience and certainly not recently. Louis soothes him with a hand on his cheek, thumb stroking gently, and connects their lips again. It’s awkward at first, their teeth bumping as they try and find an angle, Marcel feeling stiff as Louis tries to deepen the kiss while he takes a moment to catch up.

They get it eventually, slotting their heads just so, and Marcel tentatively brings his hands to rest on Louis’ tempting waist. It’s only when Louis follows suit and lifts his other hand to clutch at Marcel’s back that Marcel realises he’s still holding the butter. They break apart, Marcel blushing at the noise their lips make. There’s a moment where they just stare at each other, chests heaving.

“That apron really does suit you.” Louis says.

“You’re not just saying that to _butter _me up, are you?” Marcel nods at the tub of butter. He realises his glasses have been knocked askew by their enthusiastic kissing and self-consciously adjusts them.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes. Obviously I’m complimenting your frilly apron to get in your pants.”

He’s clearly being sarcastic, but it still flips the switch in Marcel’s brain from fully content to slightly anxious again.

“I don’t want to have sex with you.”

Louis coughs, his own cheeks reddening.

“Not with you specifically – I meant in general!” Marcel hurries to clarify. “Not that I’m asexual – and not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just happen to not be. But I don’t want to sleep with you right now. I didn’t invite you to my flat for that.”

Louis clears his throat again and either he’s rather congested or he’s feeling as awkward as Marcel is at the turn their conversation has taken.

“I didn’t think you did…” He replies slowly. Marcel notes with a frown that he’s moved further down the counter. 

“No, I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –“

“Marcel, I’m sorry if I was too forward just now. I thought you wanted to kiss me, but I should have asked properly first.”

“No, no, no! I loved the kissing – we should do more kissing – I just meant I’m not ready to sleep with you yet.”

“You liked the kissing?”

“Yes.” Marcel says sheepishly. “Did you?”

“I did. In fact, I wouldn’t be opposed to doing a bit more of it.”

Marcel feels emboldened and moves back into Louis’ space. He’s never kissed someone this much before and it’s making his spine feel tingly.

“That could be arranged.”

“Yeah?” Louis says softly, pushing Marcel’s glasses back up where they’ve slid down his nose.

It’s a good job Marcel didn’t preheat the oven before Louis arrived like he thought about doing; they don’t get back to the baking for another forty minutes, most of which is spent pressed against the unit making out. Not that Marcel minds. Louis is sweeter than any kind of baked goods. 

*

They go on another nine and a half dates over the next three weeks (since Marcel only counts the time they grabbed lunch between their respective workplaces as half a date; he even broke his golden rule to always bring a packed lunch for the occasion). They become pretty good at kissing too; Marcel might not have much experience but he thinks they’re pretty compatible in that department. At any rate, Louis has a knack for sucking on Marcel’s bottom lip in a way that makes his toes curl each and every time.

Yet despite Louis’ talents, and the slightly terrifying fact that Marcel would probably let him, Louis never tries to push Marcel into doing anything else. After Marcel’s embarrassing freak out the first time Louis came over, Louis has been nothing but respectful of his boundaries, hands frequently touching but never below the belt (to the point where even Marcel may be getting a little frustrated). He likes the way it makes him feel safe, though, likes the way he can lose himself to the euphoria of snogging without having to be anxious about what Louis might do next. Even when Marcel does something particularly embarrassing, like when Louis tries to change their position on the couch and Marcel and his uncooperative limbs fall inelegantly to the floor, Louis never allows him to feel foolish for long, joining him on the carpet and pressing kisses to Marcel’s neck in between giggles.

Before he knows it, it’s October, the trees beginning to lose their leaves in earnest and the air acquiring a distinctive chill. Like clockwork, his mum begins badgering him about her annual Halloween party, the one she always tells him to bring a plus one to. Of course, he has attended the party by himself ever since he left home, but she still gives him an extra invite anyway. It’s worse than Christmas in the make-Marcel-feel-bad-that-he’s-socially-inept-and-quite-possibly-unlovable department.

But _finally,_ this year he has someone to bring – if he can just work up the courage to ask. It’s not that he thinks Louis will laugh in his face at the idea or anything like that; by now he knows Louis must at least see something in him to keep hanging out with him; they take turns suggesting dates and Louis never appears anything less than enthusiastic. In fact, just the other day they had a conversation where they confirmed they were seeing each other exclusively; Marcel officially has a _boyfriend_. But wanting to date someone is different to meeting the family at an event that’s basically a family tradition. That takes things from casual to serious and he doesn’t know whether Louis will respond positively to the suggestion.

Nevertheless, the next time he sees Louis he gathers up all his courage and pops the question. The words come out in a nervous, barely intelligible rush and it’s a testament to how much time they’ve spent around each other lately that Louis still understands what he’s saying.

“A Halloween party? I thought you weren’t really into parties?” Louis asks, looking up from the bowl of sliced strawberries they’re sharing. They’re having a chilled movie night at Marcel’s flat today, Esmeralda snoozing on the back of the sofa behind them.

“I’m not really, but this is kind of a family tradition. I never really bring anyone, but as we’re sort of dating now, I thought you might like to come along. It could be…fun.”

“Sure.” Louis agrees easily, attention already back on the food in front of him. Marcel blinks, watching his fingers scoop up another piece of strawberry.

“Really? But my family will be there – my mum and my step-dad and Gemma.”

“Mhm.”

“Gemma who you met at the pub and who was, I quote, ‘seriously intimidating’.”

“I know, Marce, it’s fine.”

“It’s a costume party.” Marcel delivers the final blow.

“Huh…” Louis just looks pensive at this revelation, popping the strawberry into his mouth. “I think I still have a Spiderman suit in my wardrobe somewhere.”

Marcel shakes his head to clear it of the mental image of Louis in spandex. “I always go as a tomato. It’s kind of part of the tradition at this point. My mum and step-dad, and Gemma and her partner always coordinate their outfits.”

“Do you want to go for couple costumes then?”

“Oh – sorry, no – I didn’t mean to imply – I mean, I wasn’t trying to force you – no. No, you can wear whatever you want.”

“How negotiable is your tomato costume?”

Marcel can feel the corners of his mouth turn up. Louis continues to surprise him. “Not very.”

“In which case…what matches a tomato?”

“Well what’s your favourite vegetable?”

“Technically, tomatoes are fruit.”

“I know that – of course I know that. I grow them for heaven’s sake!”

“Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“I don’t wear knickers!” Marcel squeaks.

“Shame.” Louis wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously and Marcel leans forward to pretend to hit him only for Louis to catch his arm and pull him in for a strawberry-flavoured kiss.

A couple of minutes later they pull apart, both panting. Marcel can’t seem to stop himself squirming on the cushion, but he doesn’t move too far away, enjoying the press of their thighs together. He pulls at a loose thread on his sweater vest.

“I could see what other costumes the shop has?”

“Huh?” Louis seems a little dazed and Marcel delights in being the one to cause it.

“I could see what complimentary costumes the place where I get my tomato costume has. If you want. Their rental prices are quite good.”

“Fine…” Louis draws the word out, rolling his eyes like it’s a hardship, though his smile says otherwise.

*

Louis wonders how on earth he ended up here. Indulging Marcel’s every whim because he’s falling head over heels for the lad is one thing, but turning up to a stranger’s house in a bright orange carrot costume, complete with green stalk head and Mickey Mouse-like hands is another level of whipped.

He’s far too hot, the combination of the thick material and nerves becoming distinctly unpleasant as he trudges up to the front door. He’d had to get a taxi because there was no bus stop near Marcel’s parents’ house and, even if there was, there was no way in hell he was riding the bus dressed like this. He couldn’t even pre-drink because he’s that paranoid about making a good impression.

He had almost bailed when Marcel had shown him the costume, but Marcel’s sheer joy and excitement had been too lovely to crush. Of course, he’d also been a bit preoccupied because Marcel had shown up to deliver it unannounced and, much to Louis’ horror, Oli had been home. Louis had spent the whole conversation paranoid that Oli would appear and ask what the hell the guy from the pub was doing at their flat.

Marcel has only been round to Louis’ place one other time and then Louis had triple checked Oli would be away for the night before inviting him. Marcel knows he has a flatmate, but that’s about it. Is it sustainable? No. Will Louis keep the charade going because he’s a gigantic idiot and also probably an arsehole? Yes.

So here he is in the most garish carrot costume imaginable, ringing the doorbell of his boyfriend’s parent’s house when he still hasn’t told said boyfriend the truth about their first meeting. Tugging at the face hole of the costume, he reckons that’s a problem for future Louis – if he doesn’t die of mortification first.

Luckily, the door opens quickly, before he can decide to run away, and he’s greeted with a familiar face.

“You actually came!” Gemma exclaims gleefully. “Mum, Louis’ here! Told you he wasn’t imaginary!”

Louis feels distinctly uncomfortable as she ushers him inside and then promptly holds him at arm’s length to appraise his outfit.

“Oh my God, he’s indoctrinated you into the vegetable cult.”

“We’re matching.” Louis defends weakly.

“I know. It’s so fantastically lame. Mum! Come and see what Marcel’s done!”

A friendly-looking woman dressed in what Louis assumes is a Cleopatra costume, complete with dark wig and gold arm jewellery, appears at Gemma’s shoulder, her smile identical to Marcel’s as she beams at him.

“Hello, dear, you must be Louis.”

“I – yes. It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs Twist. Thank you for inviting me.” He holds out his hand for her to shake, realising too late how ridiculous the giant padded fingers must look, but she only uses it to pull him in for a hug, gently bumping Gemma out of the way.

“You’re very welcome, love. I’m so glad Marcel is finally bringing someone along. Come on into the lounge and I’ll introduce you to everyone. Call me Anne, by the way.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you –“

He’s interrupted by a giant tomato appearing in front of them, Marcel’s glasses glinting in the dimmed lighting.

“Marce!” Louis says, more than a little relieved. “Hi, love.”

He pulls Marcel into a hug as best he can given their costumes, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Hi, Louis.” Marcel smiles back and for a second they get lost in their own little world until someone clears their throat loudly.

“You two are disgusting. I mean, why I’d expect anything else from people dressed as vegetables, I don’t know…”

“Actually, Gemma, a tomato is a fruit.” Louis interjects, feeling Marcel grip his gloved hand.

Gemma blinks at him. “Jesus Christ, Marcel, you’ve actually found someone as weird as you are.”

She pats him on his carrot back on the way past, though, so Louis doesn’t think she actively dislikes him.

“Well, isn’t this lovely?” Marcel’s mother – Anne – says, clasping her manicured hands in front of herself. “You two pop on through there. I’m going to check on the sausage rolls.”

“Do you want some help, mum?”

“No thanks, love. You go and enjoy yourself.”

Marcel leads Louis into the living room (they quickly realise they have to walk single file, their costumes too wide to fit through the hallway at the same time) and timidly introduces him to his stepdad and various family friends sat on mismatched chairs, drinking wine and chatting.

Everyone greets him, but to Louis’ relief, they don’t stare at him, going back to their own conversations and leaving him and Marcel to themselves. 

“You look great.” Marcel comments shyly, reaching out to thumb at the sleeve of his carrot suit.

Louis rolls his eyes, taking the gloves off and abandoning them on the coffee table. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

Marcel blushes aggressively. He glances around before grabbing Louis’ hand again, much more easily now he’s ditched the gloves. Louis strokes his thumb over the back of his hand, pretending the action doesn’t send goose bumps up his arm.

“Well, come on, then – let’s get this party started, you lot!” Anne reappears in the doorway brandishing a platter of mini sausage rolls and a remote which she uses to turn up the music. A few people, including Gemma and her boyfriend, get up to dance as _Build Me Up Buttercup _blares out of the speakers.

“Solid music choice.” Louis comments.

“My mum’s in charge of music so…”

“Want to dance? Or want to check out the snacks?”

“I’m not a very good dancer.” Marcel says which in Marcel-speak means he wants to dance, but is nervous about it.

“Neither am I. Doesn’t matter really, does it? If you step on my toes, I’ll step on yours and all that.”

Marcel smiles down at his lap. Despite the loud costume on his top half, he still has his usual smart trousers and brogues on, his hair slicked back in the same way it always is. Louis wonders if he can choose the outfits for the next costume party they attend and whether Marcel will let him experiment with his hair and makeup. Maybe a butterfly or something like his sisters sometimes do; Marcel would look good with face-paint and antennae. 

“Come on,” Louis pulls Marcel to his feet and into the middle of the small makeshift dancefloor. “Let’s give Gemma a run for her money.”

He starts butchering the classic robot move just to make Marcel laugh. It has the desired effect and Marcel loosens up enough to start awkwardly swaying from side to side, his fingers clicking in time with the music. As per usual, he looks vaguely like a baby deer, his limbs too long and uncoordinated for his body.

The song changes to what Louis instantly recognises as _The Grease Megamix_, a staple at his own family gatherings ever since he played Danny Zuko in a school play. More people get up to dance and Louis starts exaggeratedly mouthing along to the lyrics and doing the arm movements to _Greased Lightning_. It takes a bit of coaxing, but eventually Marcel joins in and together they dance through several songs.

Eventually, the strain of their enthusiastic choreography gets the better of them and they’re forced to stop and get something to drink. The rest of Louis’ evening passes in a blur of chatting to people (and being introduced very loudly by Anne as Marcel’s boyfriend despite Marcel’s shushing), eating way too much finger food and giggling with Marcel. 

It’s only when they’re getting ready to leave, Anne refusing to accept Louis’ offer to help clean up, that Marcel leans in and asks Louis if he wants to come home with him.

“It would save us paying for two taxis, that’s all.”

Despite Marcel’s words, Louis knows this is a big deal, so he waits for Anne to shut the door before replying.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to push you. I’m happy to pay my own fare.”

“No, I’m sure. I’d like for you to stay at mine. If you want to.”

Louis knows he should say no. Even if they don’t have sex, spending the night together is still intimate in a way he knows is new to Marcel. It’s not a step they should probably take until Louis’ come clean about the night he asked Marcel out. But Marcel is looking at him with such wide, hopefully eyes, his hand warm and lovely in Louis’, and Louis is powerless to do anything other than nod.

“Okay. I’ll call us a taxi then.”

They spend most of the time it takes to walk down to the main road and get in the taxi chatting about the evening and exaggeratedly re-enacting each other’s dreadful dance moves. They must look ridiculous, a giant carrot and tomato with flailing arms meandering down the street, but Louis honestly couldn’t care less. Marcel makes him feel so wonderfully silly and alive, a direct contrast to any of his previous romantic partners.

They’re still in high spirits when they get back to Marcel’s flat, helping each other out of their costumes (Marcel blushing even though they both have clothes on underneath) and setting them down on the sofa. They share some herbal tea and then Marcel shyly offers Louis a spare toothbrush and some pyjamas before leaving him to it in the bathroom. The trousers are a little too long, but otherwise fit pretty well. He normally sleeps in just boxers to be honest, but he doesn’t want to make Marcel feel uncomfortable.

Afterwards, he’s invited into Marcel’s bedroom for the first time and he’s not sure what he was expecting, but it’s so wonderfully Marcel. Cosy and homey, but with quirky touches here and there that could only have been put there by Marcel, like the flower garland strung along the top of the mirror or the crochet drink coasters on the nightstand. Marcel wasn’t lying when he said he was into crafts.

Marcel doesn’t take long to appear in the doorway behind him, looking adorably apprehensive in a stripy button up pyjama set. It’s the most dressed down Louis has ever seen Marcel and it makes his chest feel tight.

“Sorry, I had to water my plants.”

“That’s okay. I noticed there was one up there too.” Louis nods towards the small cactus on the windowsill.

“That’s Gladys. She doesn’t need so much water.”

“Gladys?”

“Mhm. I like to give my plants names sometimes. Gladys is in a huff at the moment because the days are getting shorter so she gets less sunlight.”

“Relatable.” Louis says, pleased with himself when it makes Marcel smile. “Do you mind which side I pick?”

“I usually sleep by the nightstand. I get a bit claustrophobic if I can’t get out.”

Louis shrugs and climbs onto the far side of the bed by the wall. Marcel gets in after him and it takes them a moment to tug the duvet out from under them and get settled. Marcel turns to look at him.

“Thank you for coming tonight. It meant a lot to me.”

“Thank you for inviting me. And introducing me to your lovely mother.”

“Sorry, she can be a bit full on, but it comes from a good place.”

“Hey, no, I liked her a lot. Just hope I made a good impression to be honest.”

“Of course you did. She was one glass of wine away from inviting you round for Christmas dinner.” Marcel glances up at him and Louis feels his breath catch in his throat. “You’re very charming, Louis.”

“Says you.” Louis points out, leaning forward enough to press a kiss to Marcel’s parted lips before settling back onto his side of the bed, waiting for Marcel to turn off the bedside lamp.

Except the seconds tick by and Marcel makes no move to turn the light off.

“Marce?”

Marcel blinks, coming out of his thoughts. As per usual, Louis wishes he could see inside his brain.

“Sorry, just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how much I want to do _this_,” And then he’s moving forward and kissing Louis enthusiastically, half rolling on top of him under the duvet. Louis’ mouth reacts before his brain can catch up, body going pliant under warm weight as his hands grip uselessly at the silky material of Marcel’s pyjama top.

They kiss for several long minutes until he feels Marcel’s hands squirming in between their bodies. For a second, Louis thinks he’s aiming for Louis’ dick, but then it becomes clear he’s just undoing the buttons of his own pyjama top. Once they’re all undone, he sits back, the duvet falling down the bed in the process.

“I’m not perfect.” Marcel says softly, toying with the edges of his top, not quite removing it yet.

“What?” Louis attempts to grasp what Marcel means, too much blood having already rushed south.

“Just – I do try to stay healthy, but I’m not much of a gym person so I’m not, like, fit or anything.” He nods down at his own chest. “Just don’t be disappointed.”

Louis lets out a disbelieving laugh; the idea of him being disappointed by anything about the man currently half-perched on his lap is absurd. It’s the wrong reaction, however, as Marcel hunches in further and pulls the sides of his pyjama top back around his torso.

“No, love, listen,” Louis gently takes his hands and waits until Marcel looks him in the eye. “I’m sure you look stunning and I’m not that shallow. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure you could have a second head growing out of your chest and I would still fancy you like mad.”

“I do have four nipples.”

“You – what?”

“I have four nipples.” Marcel repeats, but he no longer sounds self-conscious. In fact, he sounds almost proud of the fact. He quickly discards his top and Louis gets a close-up view of what are indeed four nipples, though the extra two are smaller than the first set. Naturally, the only appropriate response to this revelation is to lean in and kiss all four of them.

“Knew you were a baby deer.” Louis comments between kisses.

Marcel groans, fingers entangling in Louis’ hair and pulling him closer, then immediately shoving him backwards again.

“Wait!” He yelps and Louis immediately moves back, terrified he’s gone too far.

“Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

Marcel clutches at Louis’ t-shirt to stop him from moving further away. “No, it’s not that. I just…”

He’s back to looking uncomfortable again and Louis hates it.

“We really don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you just want to cuddle and go to sleep, I’ll still be over the moon.”

Marcel’s forehead wrinkles up, his face becoming instantly grumpy. “But I _want _to…you know.”

“I think you’re going to have to spell it out for me, love.”

“I _want_ to do stuff with you, but I haven’t – you’d be my first.”

Louis takes that information in, hoping his face remains neutral. It’s not that he cares particularly, he would never think badly of Marcel for his sexual history, but at the same time the concept of being a virgin in one’s twenties is so alien to the world Louis has always belonged to. It’s a world where he lost his virginity with a girl at age fifteen, as did most of his mates, then went on and experimented with boys when he was seventeen. A world where all the singletons in their group think nothing of going out to pull at bars and clubs, where they discuss casual sex like the weather.

“Does that…change anything?” Marcel is fidgeting, pushing his glasses up and tugging his pyjama bottoms up over the slight swells of his hips.

“Of course not. Just a bit of a surprise, that’s all. But I meant it when I said we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can just sleep.”

“But I want to. Maybe not…all of it, not yet, but I would really like to do something with you, Louis. If you still want to.”

“It was the carrot costume, wasn’t it?” Louis says, pretending to face palm.

“Hmm?”

“The carrot costume got you all hot and bothered. Your sister did warn me you had a vegetable fetish.”

“I don’t – Louis!” Marcel’s jaw drops open as he swipes at Louis.

“I can go and put the costume back on if you want…Give you a little dance…”

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” Marcel rolls his eyes, but he leans in for a kiss again so Louis knows he isn’t really annoyed. “Thank you.” He adds after a moment and Louis strokes his back in recognition.

“I really don’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, that’s all that matters.”

“I am. You make me comfortable.” Marcel says it so earnestly, his eyes shining behind his glasses, and for a moment Louis almost tells him about the stupid dare at the pub and how happy Louis is that he went ahead with it, that it led to this.

But then they’re kissing again and the moment morphs into something more charged, all thoughts of being honest flying out the window in favour of eliciting more of those wonderful little groans from Marcel. Louis pulls back long enough to pull off his own t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, leaving him in just his boxers, and then he’s back clinging to Marcel, pushing his legs between the other man’s so that one thigh presses up against his crotch.

“Can I – I want to touch.” Marcel stutters out, eyes wide and dark behind the lenses of his glasses, the lamp light glancing off them.

Louis nods and kisses him again as Marcel’s hand moves lower, fingertips skating across the skin of his stomach until they reach his boxers. Marcel is tentative as he reaches under the waistband and loosely wraps his long fingers around Louis’ length, but Louis is already so far gone that even this slight contact makes his stomach muscles contract, his cock twitch.

Marcel breaks the kiss to glance down at where his hand is slowly feeling him out, his mouth open as he watches the damp spot in Louis’ boxers grow. A moment later, he impatiently shoves Louis boxers down further, retroactively looking up to see Louis’ reaction, as if Louis would protest the turn of events.

Louis decides he can’t go a second longer without reciprocating and makes quick work of removing Marcel’s pyjama bottoms. He’s not wearing any pants underneath, so Louis is suddenly confronted with what has to be the prettiest cock he’s ever seen. He wouldn’t generally think of penises as beautiful, but it makes sense that this is yet another thing Marcel makes him re-evaluate.

“Um.” Marcel gasps and Louis lets go of Marcel’s hips, unsure if it’s a noise of hesitation, but Marcel keeps stroking him, mouthing clumsily at any part of Louis he can reach, his glasses askew.

“Mmph…Come here…” Louis gets out, pulling Marcel close enough to dislodge the hand between their bodies, Marcel making a little noise of protest. Louis shushes him and shuffles down so their cocks line up instead, gently rolling his hips until Marcel gets the idea and tentatively humps against him. Within seconds, Marcel’s movements become more erratic, little whines huffing out of his mouth in time with the movement of his hips.

“Lou – ” He says desperately, clutching at Louis’ shoulders like his life depends on it and shoving his face into Louis’ neck, the frames of his glasses digging into the soft flesh there. His grip becomes painful a moment later, nails digging into Louis’ shoulder as he tenses then relaxes, unmistakable stickiness landing on Louis’ stomach, some of it dribbling down onto Louis’ own throbbing cock. It still takes his brain a moment to register that _oh, right, Marcel just came_.

“S-Sorry…” Marcel whispers, face still buried in the pillow by Louis’ neck. Louis can’t tell if Marcel’s skin is burning up from exertion or embarrassment or perhaps a mixture of the two.

“Don’t be, baby. It was incredibly hot.”

To prove his point, Louis presses his erection into Marcel’s thigh.

With a shuddering breath, Marcel pulls back enough to verify this information, biting his lip as he reaches towards Louis again.

“Can I…?”

Louis nods and watches as Marcel resumes stroking him, the shift of his forearm muscles mesmerising. His hair is the messiest Louis has ever seen it, normally gelled back strands falling all over his forehead, and his belly is streaked with his own come.

Louis reaches up and captures Marcel’s hot cheeks with his hands, pulling him down for another kiss. Marcel gets distracted enough that his hand stops moving so Louis fucks into the loose circle of his fist one, two, three times before pleasure washes over him, his cock pulsing as he slicks up their torsos even more.

He clenches his eyes shut, feeling woozy with the intensity of it all, and only opens them again when he feels fingers stroking his stomach, Marcel gently gathering up some of the mess and bringing it up to his mouth. He tastes it elaborately, like a goddamn wine critic, and Louis knows what’s coming before Marcel even opens his mouth, can tell by the twinkle in his eye and the appearance of the dimple.

“You need to eat more vegetables, Louis.”

He’s less smug when Louis tackles him to the mattress a second later.

They fall asleep entangled in each other, Marcel wrapped in Louis’ arms. Louis traces invisible shapes on the expanse of Marcel’s back, feels the soft huffs of breath against his neck and realises he could definitely get used to this.

*

They meet up again two days later, neither of them keen to be apart for too long. If it weren’t for the fact that Louis’ roommate doesn’t even know he’s seeing anyone (a thought Louis has been desperately trying to squash for the past forty-eight hours), Louis would probably do something stupid like ask Marcel to move in with him already. Their relationship is still so incredibly new in the grand scheme of things, but Louis has never felt this way before. It goes beyond an infatuation or physical longing; just seeing Marcel puts a smile on his face and he likes the way Marcel looks at him in return.

When he enters the café and sees Marcel already waiting for him, messing around on his phone like he always does when alone in public, Louis feels giddy. There’s even a cup of tea waiting in front of the empty seat, Marcel clearly having ordered for them both.

“Hi, love.” Louis says, careful not to startle Marcel.

“Hi, Louis. I got you some tea.”

Louis leans in to kiss his forehead in thanks, lowering himself onto the chair opposite Marcel’s and wrapping his cold hands around the cup.

“Sorry I’m a bit late. I couldn’t get Lottie off the phone. Someone took her parking space by her flat and she wanted someone to vent to.”

“I don’t blame her. There’s nothing more annoying than people who can’t read basic road signs, especially on residential streets.”

Marcel launches into a tirade about parking laws and why people should respect them, but Louis isn’t listening because the door to the café has just opened, a familiar face strolling inside. _Shit._

He immediately hunches down in his seat a bit, wishing he had a hat or something that would better hide his face, because standing at the counter is Calvin and if he looks this way, there’s a big possibility he’ll recognise both Louis and Marcel. This isn’t going to end well.

“Shall we go?” Louis blurts, wincing as he interrupts Marcel mid-rant.

“What? You’re still drinking your tea. Is this – do you want to have sex again?”

“What?” Louis asks, not sure if Marcel’s words are actually confusing or if Louis is just too busy following Calvin’s movements out of the corner of his eye to take them in properly.

“Do you want to go home now so we can, you know, _do it_ again?”

“I – no. Of course not. Just feeling a bit…hot.”

“You’re not coming down with something, are you?” Marcel sounds genuinely concerned, raising a large hand to cup Louis’ forehead. Louis tries to twist away, certain they’re drawing attention to themselves.

“Louis?”

Oh god. Calvin’s seen them. Calvin’s seen them and he’s headed straight towards them.

“Oi, Louis, what are you doing here? Haven’t seen you in a bit, mate.”

Louis waves half-heartedly, heart pounding in his chest. Marcel glances between the two of them with a smile on his face, oblivious, because Louis is a fucking idiot.

“What’s up, then? Oh – hello nerdy man from the pub.”

The smile drifts off Marcel’s face, his brows furrowing. “Um. Hi?”

Calvin shoots Louis a bemused look and says in a whisper that isn’t nearly quiet enough, “Has Oli put you up to this? Is this part two of the dare?”

“What?” Marcel’s voice is also hushed, his glasses starting to slide down his nose. Louis reaches out to push them up again instinctively. 

“The fuck? Are you having me on?”

“What’s going on?” Marcel asks.

“Why’re you out with Louis?” Calvin turns his attention to Marcel, giving him a once over in the process.

“Louis’ my boyfriend. Are you – how do you know Louis?”

Calvin lets out a cackle, clapping Louis on the back. “Oh man, you’re good. You actually got him to go out with you.”

“What?” Marcel repeats, his voice developing a distinct tremble.

“It’s not like that –” Louis starts but is interrupted by Calvin.

“Fucking hell, Lou. You kept it up. Did Oli dare you to keep going?”

“Why would – you asked me out as a dare?” Marcel sounds upset and Louis absolutely hates himself. He’s such an _idiot_.

“It’s not like that, Marce, you have to believe me –”

“I don’t understand. Who’s this? Who dared you?”

“Oh shit.” Calvin, the dickhead, realises his mistake too late.

Marcel stands up, his chair scraping noisily along the cheap café floor. “Why – how could you? I thought…It was a dare. Of course it was a dare.”

He sounds angry now, but more at himself than Louis which is wrong on so many levels. Louis takes a step towards him, desperately wants to hold him close and explain how he’s got it all wrong, how Calvin doesn’t understand anything, how Louis loves him so much, because he does, but Marcel is already backing away.

Marcel wraps his arms around himself, very much a cornered baby deer, then in a flash he’s leaving the café. Louis spares Calvin no mind as he jogs to catch up.

*

Marcel can hardly process anything beyond the roaring in his ears and the patronising little voice chanting ‘it was a dare!’ over and over again inside his head. He’s barely made it to the end of the street before he feels Louis catch his arm and stop him. They stare at each other for a moment, Marcel all too aware of the tears welling up in his eyes and the wild desperation in Louis’.

“Marce, please, it’s not like that.”

Louis reaches out again and now Marcel is crying, despite his best efforts to press the tears back inside with his pocket square. He’s sure passers-by must be staring, that Louis must be so embarrassed that he’s making a scene, but he can’t help it. He really thought - he’d really let himself believe that someone like Louis was genuinely interested in him, that someone found him attractive enough to ask out and then keep seeing. If it wasn’t so emotionally devastating, the whole thing would be laughable. If he could muster anything other than profound sadness and bitter disappointment, he’d be thrilled about the _I told you_ _so_ he could throw in Gemma’s face.

He takes a shuddering breath and his glasses fall off but he’s too distraught to look where they’ve landed. Of course, Louis bends down to get them and carefully places them back on his face. Yet what Marcel had interpreted as tenderness before is probably more like amusement at Marcel’s uselessness. God, he really thought they’d shared something so special and intimate the other day, but Louis was probably repulsed, laughing at Marcel’s baby fat and awkwardness behind his back.

“Marcel…” Louis tries once more, but Marcel feels himself shake his head and make a noise like some kind of dying animal. He can feel snot and tears building in his throat and he just knows he’s about to ugly cry. God knows Louis doesn’t need to see any more of his ugly.

This time when he turns away, Louis doesn’t follow him. Marcel can’t tell whether he feels relieved or even more disappointed. How has he gone from cloud nine to minus figures in the span of ten minutes?

He somehow makes it home without curling up in a ball and sobbing on the pavement and he doesn’t realise he’s walked all the way home until he notices the dull throb of his heels where his shoes have rubbed. If he’s honest, the slight pain is a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest right now.

Esmerelda must know something’s wrong because she plops down next to him as soon as he falls into bed, her little head butting against his thigh. He strokes her, trying desperately hard to ignore the lingering scent of Louis on his sheets, and dials his sister’s number. She’ll know what to do.

His sister answers sounding vaguely bored as always, but she picks up on Marcel’s laboured breathing right away and as soon as she asks, the whole story comes spilling out of Marcel in between hiccupping gasps. She makes him get his inhaler and hushes him in low, soothing tones until he calms down enough to be coherent. She tells him she’s coming over and ignores Marcel’s half-hearted protests; he can already hear her picking up her keys.

He waits until his sister ends the call and takes a deep breath. He clears his throat twice and then promptly bursts into tears all over again. He knows he’s being dramatic, but he really does feel inconsolable, like he’ll never feel whole again. He hates that despite everything he wishes Louis was here to comfort him right now.

*

The next couple of days are rough for Marcel to say the least. He’s used to being lonely, but now that he knows what it’s like to have a _person,_ someone who wants to hang out with him and know about his day, coming home to the solitude of his flat seems that much worse. The silence clings to him, broken only by the soft mewling of Esme crying for food, which somehow makes him feel worse because what kind of twenty-four-year old only has a cat for company? 

He thinks about Halloween and how wonderful it was to love and be loved in front of everyone, and how awful Christmas is going to be when he turns up alone once more and has to ignore his mother’s worried glances.

Esmerelda’s meows become more insistent and, in a daze, Marcel stumbles off the sofa and promptly trips over something lying on the floor. Rubbing his big toe where he stubbed it on the carpet, he picks up the offending object and realises it’s the green origami swan that must have fallen off the windowsill. He grabs the blue one, too, and drops them both into the bin in the kitchen as he goes to get Esme her food.

Seeing the paper get crumpled makes him feel dangerously close to tears again, but rather than giving in, he presses play on the breakup playlist his sister sent him, turning his phone’s volume up as high as it will go. He dances around a little bit to Leona Lewis as he prepares a sachet of cat food and then forces himself to toast a piece of bread for his own dinner. It’s a good job he has an exceptional attendance record to maintain or else he would have seriously considered feigning illness to get out of work these past few days. 

He had almost expected everyone’s eyes to be on him when he went in, felt like his internal turmoil should be branded on him somehow, but no one paid him any attention just like always. It’s probably a blessing that he’s not close enough to any of his co-workers to have introduced them to Louis. It’s bad enough that he had to explain the situation to Gemma, let alone people he’s forced to see every day.

Ah well, he thinks as he turns on his laptop, at least he’s learnt a valuable lesson: if something seems too good to be true, it almost certainly is.

The bread pops out of the toaster and Marcel sets about carefully buttering it. He’s not even sure if a breakup playlist is suitable for his situation, but he doubts Spotify has a ‘I thought someone wanted to be in a relationship with me but turns out they were just pretending as part of a dare’ playlist. Shame really.

Not for the first time, he wonders what Louis is up to. Whether he’s making his own dinner and whether it’s more nutritious than Marcel’s slightly overdone toast. Or whether he’s out at some bar picking up someone who doesn’t care how many vegetables he eats, who’s probably a million times more confident and sexy than Marcel could ever be.

His phone buzzes with a text, but he has to clear his eyes of tears before he can read it. He hopes it’s Gemma with some more advice on how to fix a broken heart, but his fingers freeze when he sees Louis’ name on the screen.

_Marcel – please can we talk? I’m so, so incredibly sorry about what happened. Hope you’re doing okay._

He places his phone screen-down on the table and resumes nibbling at his toast. He doesn’t want to see Louis just so the other man can assuage his guilt. Plus, he doesn’t fancy humiliating himself by bursting into tears in front of him again.

No, a clean break is better for everyone. Or so he tells himself as he climbs into bed that night, wondering whether it would be too pathetic to order a fluffy pillow to cuddle.

The next day, a giant bouquet of pink and blue flowers appears on his desk after lunch and it’s not until Veronica from accounting tells him to read the little card next to them that he realises they’re for him. They’re from Louis and Marcel doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course, he does neither because he’s a professional and he doesn’t want to feed the office gossip machine, but internally he’s a mess. He doesn’t get much work done that afternoon.

When he gets home, he treads on an envelope that’s been haphazardly pushed through his letter box. He recognises the writing and it’s with trepidation that he opens it to find some afternoon tea vouchers for Richmond Tea Rooms inside, courtesy of Louis.

It all feels so ridiculous; the idea that some stupid flowers and posh tea could make his chest feel less tight. He knows it’s all meant to pacify him, but If anything it makes him feel even more foolish.

Right on cue, as Marcel is taking his baked potato out of the oven, his phone alerts him to a new text.

_Please, Marcel, can we talk? You don’t know how sorry I am. It’s all a misunderstanding. I’m sorry you found out the way you did, but it’s not what you think. _

Marcel wants to tear his hair out in frustration. If it’s not what he thinks, if it’s all a big misunderstanding, then why was there anything for him to ‘find out’ about in the first place. He’s not stupid; there aren’t many ways to interpret what Louis’ friend said.

He jumps when his phone starts buzzing properly, this time with an incoming call. He doesn’t mean to answer it, but he accidentally presses the accept call button while fumbling with the phone and then the thought of hearing Louis’ voice again is too tempting to resist.

“Marcel?” Louis sounds agitated, but Marcel still drinks in the way he says his name. “Marcel, are you there?”

He makes a choked sound that could vaguely be interpreted as a yes.

“Oh God, Marcel, you don’t know how sorry I am. Can we – I need to speak to you – if you’d let me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Marcel states, squishing the steaming inside of his potato with his fork. Neither of them mentions the fact that he answered the call in the first place.

“I understand that.” Louis says, sounding devastated. “But if you change your mind – or – you could…”

Marcel sighs. “Stop sending me stuff.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Marcel blinks back the usual tears and listens to the ragged breathing on the other end of the line, wonders if _Louis _is crying too.

“If you came round now and – explained everything or whatever, would you leave me alone afterwards?”

Louis makes a wounded noise. “Marce, if you really want me to leave you alone, I’ll do it now. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

It reminds Marcel of Louis’ words the night they slept together and he feels another wave of embarrassment wash over him. He stands up abruptly, fork clattering onto his still-full plate.

“No, I have some questions and stuff so. You can come round now and then…Then we don’t have to see each other again.”

Louis is quiet for a moment. “See you in a bit.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Louis echoes back before ending the call.

Marcel puts his uneaten dinner in the fridge and focuses on rearranging the coasters on the coffee table, making sure all the little cat faces on them are facing the same way. He changes Esme’s food and half-heartedly plucks the cat hair off the sofa cushions. He’s just about to get the duster out when the doorbell goes. He stands up and smooths down his trousers, then his hair, then dives back into his bedroom to give himself one last look over in the mirror. He doesn’t think it’s too obvious he’s been crying, especially with his glasses on.

He takes a calming breath and stares at his phone on the nightstand, already mentally composing a text to Gemma to ask her to come over with more ice cream once Louis has gone.

The doorbell rings again and it irritates Marcel. Why can’t Louis just wait a moment, give him a couple of extra minutes to compose himself?

Nevertheless, he heads back into the hallway and opens the door (perhaps a little forcefully given the way Louis stumbles forwards). Marcel glares at him.

“I was on my way.”

Louis seems taken aback. “Oh. Sorry. I just…thought you might be out or something.”

“I’m not in the habit of standing people up when I arrange to meet with them.”

Louis can’t seem to think of a response fast enough and Marcel sniffs, pushing his glasses up his nose as he steps back to let Louis in. He feels powerful for a moment, despite what a pathetic, snivelling wreck he’s been the past couple of days, and it gives him enough confidence to meet Louis’ eyes.

“So.” Marcel says. He hasn’t quite made up his mind whether he wants to invite Louis to sit down.

“So…” Louis echoes, sounding just as lost as Marcel but far less annoyed about it. He’s fidgety, too, one hand behind his back.

“Do you want to just say your piece then?”

“My piece?”

“Might as well get it over with. You asked me out for a dare, you’re sorry it went this far, but you never really liked me and I was a naïve fool for thinking otherwise. Does that about sum it up?”

“I – no, of course not. That’s not what happened.”

“You asked me out because your friend dared you to.”

“Yeah.” Louis agrees softly, staring at the carpet. Just like that, any angry confidence Marcel was feeling vanishes and he feels foolish again, looking at Louis all soft and handsome in an oversized jumper and wondering how on earth Marcel believed they were a good fit. It’s a devastating blow, to see all the fun and happiness of the last few weeks vanish in a puff of smoke. Or maybe all of it was never more than smoke all along, transient and obscuring, clogging up Marcel’s throat.

He sighs and heads into the living area, relieved when a moment later Louis silently follows him. Louis looks upset, Marcel thinks, and he can’t tell whether he feels satisfied about that or not.

“I just – you really seemed so…” He struggles to put his swirling thoughts into words as they both sit down on the sofa. “I don’t know if I was just incredibly foolish or if you should seriously consider a career in acting.”

Louis looks even more upset at that, hands fiddling with his jumper sleeves, pushing them up and down his forearms. “Marce, I _did_ like you, I _do_, just –”

“Just not in that way.” Marcel finishes for him.

“No! No, you don’t understand. I do like you in that way. That was the problem.”

Marcel doesn’t really know what to say to that, doesn’t understand what Louis’ going on about. Louis seems incredibly earnest, but Marcel has been taken in by that before; that’s why he’s in this mess, having this confusing, gut-wrenching conversation.

“It was just meant to be a stupid little dare for some footie tickets. From my mate’s point of view anyway. But then I got to know you and I really fell for you, Marcel. I like you a lot.”

“So you were dared to ask me out and then, what? You realised I wasn’t as horrible as you thought I might be?”

“No, that’s not – I was just scared. You mean a lot to me.”

“As much as some football tickets, you mean.” Marcel laughs humourlessly, raking a hand through his hair and wincing when he comes into contact with the hair gel in it. He probably looks a mess now; so much for the extra minute in front of the mirror. His old self would be horrified, but current Marcel can’t bring himself to care all that much.

“Baby,” Louis says, but the term of endearment doesn’t have the same molten effect on Marcel’s insides as the first time he said it. “I know I’ve made a mess of things and you have every right to think badly of me, but please don’t think badly about yourself. Not because of this.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think, Louis?” Marcel says, trying very hard not to let his distress show on his face. He knows he’s an ugly crier. “You’re hardly the first person to only ask me out as a joke – I know I’m not _arm candy_ material, but it’s not fair. It’s not. I liked you and you took advantage of that for some football tickets.”

Louis looks distraught, hand coming out to grip Marcel’s arm, his touch gentle as ever despite the suddenness of the movement.

“Look, the only reason my mate came up with the whole thing is because I couldn’t stop staring at you. I was ogling you across the room like some sort of creepy idiot and my mates were teasing me about it. I was too scared to just go up to you and ask you out – you’re so unlike anyone else I’ve ever dated in the best way possible, I had such a big crush on you, and I was completely intimidated. So instead of manning the fuck up and just talking to you, I waited until Calvin gave me an excuse – I could always laugh it off if you weren’t interested. I wanted you far more than a stupid footie ticket and I should’ve just been honest about it to you – and to myself. But I didn’t ask you out to get some football tickets; I used the football tickets to ask you out.”

“I’m not very intimidating.” Is all Marcel can think to say, taking his glasses off to rub tiredly at his face. The gesture displaces Louis’ hand on his arm.

Louis manages a small smile, trying to meet Marcel’s eyes when he opens them again. “You were the best dressed person in the pub that night and clearly more refined than our noisy lot. I’d noticed you for weeks. It was intimidating. I thought you were a posh investment banker or something. This was before I knew you had the coordination of a baby deer, remember?”

Marcel wishes his traitorous heart would stop fluttering on impulse when Louis says stuff like that. He needs it to stay firmly grounded in the land of rationality.

“But if you liked me then why didn’t you ever tell your friends that I was – that we were together.”

“I don’t know. Because they thought I’d just asked you out as a dare. They didn’t even know we actually went out the first time. I talk about flings and stuff with them, sure, but I’d never had big enough feelings for someone to actually, like, talk about it with them, to introduce someone to them. At first I thought there was no point until we’d been dating for longer – there was always a chance you wouldn’t like me back, and then as time went on, I didn’t want to seem like I’d been keeping it from them.”

“You had been keeping it from them.” Marcel points out.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just made it into this big thing in my head.”

“You were embarrassed of me.”

“No – it’s not that. I was embarrassed of myself, of my own behaviour. I just couldn’t get the two worlds to coexist in my head so I kept you separate. It all spiralled out of control, but I swear it wasn’t because I didn’t like you enough. I think you’re amazing. You’re my favourite person and honestly, I was willing to cut them out of my life just to keep you. By Halloween I knew coming clean to you would ruin everything – it’s no excuse, but it’s why I couldn’t tell you. Somewhere in my head, I thought if I had to see way less of Calvin and the lads to keep you, it would be worth it.”

Marcel didn’t like swearing often, even in his head, but frankly a lot of Louis’ reasoning still sounded like bullshit. “Surely your friends would have been understanding? Couldn’t you have just explained the situation?”

Louis looks down and Marcel can tell he’s not going to like whatever is coming.

“They may have…made fun of you a little bit, back at the pub. Thought it was funny that I was staring at you.”

“They thought you were too good for me.” Marcel states quietly, picking at a bit of dead skin by his thumb nail. He really ought to start getting manicures again.

“No! They were just teasing me because you’re not my usual type…”

“Okay, Louis, I get it. No need to rub it in.” He snaps, annoyed with himself for sounding emotional, for letting Louis get to him.

“I should’ve stood up to them, I know. I was a coward and I’m sorry. I can’t say it enough, Marcel. I’m so, so sorry. I hate hurting people I love and it’s killing me that I –“

“Don’t!” Marcel says, standing up to try and dispel the bolt of panic that just shot through him. “Don’t throw words like that around. It’s not a joke to me.”

“It’s not a joke to me either. _You’re_ not a joke to me – or a dare or an embarrassment or anything else I’ve made you think. I’ve liked you since I first saw you in the pub and the last couple of months have only made me like you more. Just ask my sister – she could literally tell I’m in love with you from the way I spoke about you on the phone. If you want to break up with me, that’s completely understandable – I would absolutely hate it, but I’d get it – but don’t you dare think that I’m anything but completely, insanely in love with you.”

Marcel has to physically push his fist against his mouth to keep himself from saying anything or, worse, just bursting into sobs. He can feel the tears building in him for the hundredth time that day, his vision blurring. He doesn’t know if it’s the glossy eyes or the way he’s swaying slightly on his feet, but Louis notices his distress and carefully moves towards him.

“Love, sit down, yeah? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you again.”

Marcel shakes his head furiously as Louis guides him back down onto the sofa. He wants to say he isn’t upset, but he is – just not the same kind of upset he was an hour ago. It’s all very confusing. If attractive men turn his brain to mush, then attractive men declaring their love for him send his brain into overdrive.

Not that he’s ever been in this position before. He reckons that’s part of the problem; having his first heartbreak and his first love declaration within seventy-two hours is too much.

“I’m going to make you a cuppa and then get out of your hair, okay?” Louis says from the doorway, still looking concerned that Marcel is about to pass out on him. It’s not totally out of the realm of possibility.

Louis disappears into the kitchen and Marcel sags back into the sofa, leaning his head back to rest on the cushion. He stares at the ceiling, at the weirdly shaped stain in one corner, and wonders how his life has become so dramatic and emotionally draining over the past few days. Of course, most of the blame lies with the man currently making him a cup of tea next door, noisily opening the fridge and clinking mugs together, though he also wants to blame his sister a bit. If she hadn’t forced him to be social on Friday evenings, he never would’ve crossed paths with Louis and his days of being asked out as part of a dare would remain a vaguely traumatic memory of his time at university.

That said, there are a lot of differences between this situation and his university days. For one thing, Louis didn’t just ask him out to get a laugh and he didn’t just suffer through a single date. No, Louis has spent time with him consistently in the past few weeks which sort of suggests he is telling the truth, that he does have some form of genuine feelings for Marcel. But then why didn’t he tell his friends about them? Louis isn’t half as socially awkward as Marcel so why on earth has he made such a mess of everything?

Marcel startles as Louis places a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table, careful to put it on one of the little coasters. He puts Marcel’s trusty inhaler next to it.

“Just in case.” Louis says when he sees Marcel eyeing it.

Marcel takes a sip of tea just to occupy his hands and immediately regrets it when the hot liquid burns his tongue. Louis clears his throat.

“I’m going to leave you to it.”

“Okay.”

“If you – um – want to contact me, you can call or text me. Obviously.”

Marcel nods. He kind of wants to ask if they’re officially broken up now, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to break this uneasy limbo they’ve fallen into. He thinks he’d feel even worse if he knew this was the last time he’d ever see Louis. Despite everything, the thought makes him feel panicked, like he ought to grab onto Louis’ wrist and beg him to stay even though Marcel knows that he isn’t the one who should be grovelling.

Louis heads to the door and Marcel stands up abruptly.

“Don’t go.” He says.

Louis looks taken aback, freezing in place. Marcel vaguely registers that he never took his shoes off.

“I just thought you’d want some space.”

Marcel nods, then shakes his head. “I don’t. I mean – I do, maybe. I’m still angry at you and I’m still hurt, but I don’t want to break up with you. Unless you…”

“Of course not!” Louis says, walking back over to him and grabbing both his hands. “I thought I’d made it clear. I don’t want to break up at all. But the ball’s in your court, yeah?”

“On my side of the pitch, you mean.”

“Huh?”

“We’re fighting over some football tickets. You might as well make the expression match the situation.”

Louis exhales forcefully. “I really, really love you, Marce. And I hope you’ll give me a chance to make it all up to you. I’ll never watch a football game again if that’s what you want. I’ll stand on a table in the Rose and Dagger and publicly declare my love for you. I’ll –“

Marcel shushes him before he can say anything else ridiculous. He still feels a little lightheaded so it’s not impossible that he’s hallucinating this entire conversation.

“Thank you.” Marcel says, carefully leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek. “I appreciate you coming round and explaining your side of things to me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Marcel shrugs. “I know Gemma will be happy she doesn’t have to listen to me cry at her anymore. And Esme for that matter.”

“I’m sorry.” Louis says. “The last thing I ever wanted to do was make you cry.”

“I know.” Marcel says, because he does. He doesn’t think Louis’ behaviour was good necessarily, but he knows that he didn’t act from a place of malice.

Louis nods and scratches Esme’s head as he heads back to the door. She hardly stirs, used to Louis’ touch by now and oblivious to the distress he’s caused her owner.

They both seem calmer now, Marcel thinks. He still sort of wants to ask Louis to stay, but he no longer feels desperate with it. Gemma told him yesterday to hear Louis out and not do anything rash, and he thinks he’s done a pretty good job following her advice.

“Bye, love.” Louis says as he sees himself out.

“Bye, Louis.”

It’s quiet in his flat once Louis has left. He sits very still and soaks it in for a moment before finishing his tea, grateful for Esme snoring quietly in the background. He still really wishes he was snuggled next to Louis watching something on tele right now, but that’s okay. He’s tired and he needs to sleep on everything so he can form slightly less emotional opinions.

He’s always prided himself on being the kind of person who thinks with his head, not his heart; he might regularly tear up at romcoms, but that’s because he knows they’re fictional. He knows he is never going to be the handsome protagonist of a romantic film, but for the past few weeks Louis has made him feel like he could be; he just has to resist the urge to tear the screenplay to shreds at the first hurdle. Louis might well hurt him again, but that scenario is preferable to giving up and never knowing what might have been.

They just need to have some long conversations about honesty and communication in their relationship. And he really needs to be introduced to Louis’ friends, preferably without being made fun of. Maybe he could bring Gemma along as a bodyguard of sorts.

Eventually, he forces himself to get up and take his empty mug into the kitchen. The second he enters the room, however, he freezes on the spot.

There on the counter is a mug filled with cellophane-encased chocolates that definitely wasn’t there the last time he looked. Upon closer inspection, the mug has two cartoon tomatoes with little arms and legs on it, one wearing large glasses. Around the picture it says ‘I love you from my head to-ma-toes’, a pun that makes Marcel grin and then promptly burst into tears.

They aren’t sad tears, not really. He’s just overwhelmed again – because Louis must have smuggled in a silly gift for him and didn’t give it to Marcel while he was here, somehow aware that it would put Marcel on the spot and make him uncomfortable. And it’s miles better than the flowers he sent to Marcel’s work because it combines three of Marcel’s favourite things: tomatoes, puns and tea.

It’s clearly designed to make Marcel smile, and while he might sob into his duvet while eating the little chocolates from inside the mug, Esmerelda watching him like he has two heads, it does make him feel much better about everything. Louis might have been an idiot, but he does genuinely like Marcel and want to make it up to him. Marcel wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t give Louis another chance.

He spends the rest of the evening munching on chocolate and texting lengthy paragraphs to his sister, explaining the latest developments in the drama and sending her a picture of the mug. She replies with an eye roll emoji and a final text telling Marcel to ‘_go and get his man_’. He knows that she’s secretly happy she hasn’t had to talk him down over the phone again. She probably deserves some flowers herself for the moral support these past few days now that Marcel thinks about it.

He doesn’t follow her instruction that night, because he’s already in his pyjamas and his face is puffy and he can’t be arsed to work out the bus schedule at this time of night, but he does send Louis a goodnight text and a picture of the empty chocolate wrappers. Louis responds immediately with three hearts and a picture of several paper swans with the caption ‘_I’ve been stress origami-ing_’.

Marcel forces himself to put his phone on silent and goes to sleep with a smile on his face for the first time in days.

*

It definitely takes a couple of weeks to get back to normal. Louis doesn’t blame Marcel for being a bit hesitant at first; he’s just grateful that Marcel gave him another chance in the first place, and that he hasn’t completely reverted to his reserved, stuttering self. They hang out in various lowkey ways, Marcel insistent that they don’t go on any formal, getting-to-know-you dates as it will feel too like they’re starting completely from scratch.

Instead, they often sit on Marcel’s couch and put some random film or TV show on while they chat or mess around with origami or cook dinner together. Some nights they play scrabble or browse vintage clothing sites side by side on the sofa. One evening they go to the theatre because a local company is performing _The 39 Steps_ and Marcel thinks Louis will enjoy it. He does.

It’s a lot easier now Louis can invite Marcel round whenever he wants, not having to worry about Oli being out of the way first. If Oli doesn’t like them snogging on the couch, then he can go and cry about it elsewhere as far as Louis’ concerned. Mainly Oli just rolls his eyes at them and shuts himself in his room.

Louis continues to tell Marcel he loves him whenever he thinks it (which is quite a lot – he’s never subscribed to the idea that the words lose their meaning if you say them too much; it’s overwhelming how much he means it each and every time he says it). Marcel never says it back, but that’s okay, Louis gets it. The last thing he’d ever want to do is pressure Marcel in any way.

Similarly, their physical relationship hasn’t progressed beyond heated make out sessions and occasional over-the-clothes groping, but, again, Louis gets it. He knows Marcel is still a bit conflicted about the last time they had sex, how everything had gone wrong immediately after, and as much as Louis kicks himself for adding to Marcel‘s insecurities, he recognises that forcing Marcel to talk about it would only make the other man feel worse.

Louis has, however, spent a long time making sure Marcel knows exactly how attractive Louis finds him, and that everything that happened had nothing to do with Louis not liking the way Marcel looked. Marcel no longer tenses up when Louis grips his waist or kisses the length of his neck, but he doesn’t initiate anything further either and Louis respects that. To be honest, if Marcel said he never wanted to have sex again, Louis would still want to spend the rest of his life with him (he’s maybe more than a little gone for the man).

It’s one Friday in December when Marcel properly meets the lads. They decide to meet at a restaurant rather than the pub (since Marcel doesn’t drink and Louis would rather his friends were relatively sober for the occasion) and Louis makes sure to emphasise beforehand how much Marcel means to him. After all, it’s not that his friends are total dickheads; they can just be a bit insensitive unless they are pre-emptively made aware of the nature of the situation. He’s still annoyed at Calvin’s oblivious behaviour at the café when Marcel found out. 

Louis is definitely over dancing around his feelings, though. If he‘s learnt anything over the last two months it’s that it’s not worth losing something as special as this relationship over his own insecurities and inability to communicate. And that if he feels his mum would deem something ‘idiot behaviour’ then he probably shouldn’t do it.

The meal goes pretty well all things considered. Everyone is polite to Marcel and no one teases him for ordering a veggie burger (Louis only has to glare at them a little to keep the remarks at bay). Marcel wins them over with his knowledge about vintage Adidas clothing and by the end of the meal, Louis can tell that Marcel is relaxed and enjoying himself which allows Louis to relax too.

They decline Calvin’s invitation to move onto a club afterwards and instead go back to Marcel’s flat. The lads tease them for being too obsessed with each other, but it’s good natured and largely aimed at Louis’ uncharacteristic sappiness as he helps Marcel into his coat and guides him out of the restaurant.

Marcel is particularly clingy once they get back, hovering next to Louis as he makes them some mint tea, yet not really listening to anything Louis says, just humming vaguely in response. Louis heads towards the couch, but Marcel takes his wrist and leads him into his bedroom instead.

They settle on the bed, on top of the covers, Marcel immediately wrapping his long, uncoordinated limbs around Louis like an octopus.

“Thank you for tonight. I don’t think they hated me too much…?” Marcel says quietly, sliding his glasses off to rub at his eyes.

“Of course not.” Louis responds immediately, fingers skating over Marcel’s back. “They were all bowled over by your charm in no time.”

Marcel rolls his eyes but can’t hide the pleased quirk to his lips as he kisses Louis. They continue to get lost in each other for long, blissful minutes until Marcel’s hands begin sliding underneath Louis’ t-shirt. He tenses up, however, when Louis starts to return the favour so Louis retreats, wrapping Marcel up in his arms instead so they can properly cuddle. They stay like that, comfy and peaceful, until Marcel breaks the silence.

“Louis?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Please could you go and water the plants for me?”

Louis groans, rolling away from Marcel and slapping his hands over his face.

“Please…They’ll be so sad if they think we’ve forgotten them.”

“Oh my god. If you don’t want to be a bad plant parent, then go and water them yourself.”

“But I’m comfortable.” Marcel whines. “And I’ve lost my glasses.”

Louis happens to know that Marcel’s glasses are on the nightstand where he himself put them so they wouldn’t get squashed, but with a longsuffering sigh, he heaves himself off the bed.

“Don’t blame me when I over water them and they die.”

“I won’t. Just be gentle with the tomatoes.”

“I’m always gentle with the tomatoes.”

“I know.” Marcel says, stretched out like a starfish on the bed. His sweater vest has ridden so far up, it looks like a weird crop top. “That’s why I love you.”

Louis’ attention snaps back to Marcel’s face. He looks a little apprehensive, but mainly just pleased with himself.

“I love you too. Even if you own too many plants.”

“There’s no such thing as too many plants, Louis.”

“God, Gemma’s right, what have I signed up for.”

“Too late, you’re trapped now. My mother is asking whether you’re coming to our Christmas party.”

Louis pretends to consider it. “Do we have to dress up as Christmas vegetables?”

“Duh.” Marcel says, completely serious. “I’m always a Brussels Sprout.”

Louis fish mouths in the doorway until Marcel lets out a bark of laughter, cheeks pinkening in delight.

“Oh my gosh, Louis, your face! I’m _kidding_!”

Naturally, Louis’ next course of action is to grab a pillow to throw at Marcel which leads to a tickle fight which leads to more kissing and this time, when Marcel’s overeager fingers dip underneath his waistband, neither of them hesitate. What follows are quite possibly the most enthusiastic, intense mutual hand jobs of Louis’ life.

Later, when they’re both flushed and sated, Marcel having had a puff of his inhaler to help him catch his breath, they settle under the covers, smiling at each other like idiots.

“Louis…” Marcel mumbles, eyes drooping more and more by the minute. Louis combs his messy hair off his forehead.

“Mhm?”

“You forgot to water the tomatoes.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to come and talk to me on my tumblr (yousopugly). Nice comments/kudos will definitely make my day.


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